


The Problem of Other Minds

by skullopendra



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Conflict Resolution, Dehumanization, Dehumanizing Language, Enemies to Friends, Ensemble Cast, Forgiveness, Friends to ??????, Grudges, Hate at First Sight, Love at First Sight, Nonbinary Character, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Roboethics, Robot Prejudice, Robot/Human Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-07-14 14:45:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 32,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7176182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skullopendra/pseuds/skullopendra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“As a matter of fact,” Zenyatta goes on, “I am available to heal it for you, if you so desire.”</p><p>“What I <em>desire</em>,” Zarya says lowly, her accent thickening with emotion, “is to squeeze your <em>tin can head</em> between my palms, until--”</p><p>That is the shape of it, at first. Zenyatta seeks to improve human-omnic relations by cultivating interpersonal relationships. Zarya's idea of harmonious relations is more along the lines of peace through superior firepower.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I've Got My Eye On You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that"  
> \- Martin Luther King Jr.

When Zarya enlisted in the Russian Defense Force, she didn't begrudge the loss of her weightlifting career. She knew then, as she does now, that she would be fighting for something far more important than international renown, or a trophy or a belt.

Zarya was honored to fight the omnic threat, as her parents had done before her.  But she wondered if their country could endure another Omnic Crisis.  Defeat was an impossibility in her mind, but what was the point of fighting if the omnics just kept coming?  Would it ever end?

Then Overwatch reached out to her.  Zarya had to school her reaction when she saw the letterhead in her work email.

They wanted her to join them.

Zarya allowed herself to imagine that the viral video of her ripping an omnic particle cannon off an armored vehicle must have made for a compelling resume.

She didn't consider that aligning herself with Overwatch would feel like leaving her homeland unprotected -- that it would mean cooperating with the very machines that even now are laying siege to her country and her people.

It was all very bureaucratic.  They couldn't throw small, specialized forces at a fully functional omnium.  That would just end in a bloodbath ("and what do you suppose my people are facing," Zarya doesn't say).  They have to gather intelligence, weigh their options, see if there isn't another solution apart from a second war ("and in the meantime, do you suppose the war will wait for my people?" Zarya doesn't say).

And so biting her tongue, the Siberian would-be heavy weight-lifting champion and freedom fighter finds herself in a cramped jet with five other Overwatch agents, fast approaching one of the deactivated American omniums.  The one in Australia would have been ideal, they said, since peace efforts had already been made, but the Australian Liberation Front had gone and exploded it and turned the surrounding area into a nuclear wasteland and now it was useless.

Also it was in Australia, which was a much greater undertaking than the one hour flight from the Grand Mesa Watchpoint to the isolated omnium in America's dust bowl.

This one is inactive, but they hope to find some useful intel inside.

Zarya is hoping to find some active omnics, and an excuse to beat them into the ground.

Ironically, just such a one is seated beside her for the duration of the flight.  Her trigger finger itches, but she isn't a fool.  Though it wasn't made explicit that killing this particular omnic would have dire repercussions, its presence alone tells her in no uncertain terms that it isn't something she's allowed to destroy.

It hasn't made any threatening overtures, either, from what Zarya has seen -- though that, to her, is even more nerve-wracking than the alternative.

She gets the feeling that it's looking at her as they unstrap themselves from their seats and prepare to dismount the jet.  Something hard and mistrustful in her core prevents her from letting the potential challenge lie.  "I've got my eye on you, omnic."  The transport jet rumbles as it makes its landing half a mile from the omnium. Zarya doesn't let it jar her, holding firmly to the overhead guard rail.

The omnic is floating implacably, impossibly. It tilts its head toward her in acknowledgement. She tightens her grip on the rail, prepared to demonstrate her ability to follow through on the implied threat, if it comes to that.

"And I will watch your back in turn," it says simply.

Zarya stares, not sure she understands -- almost misses the hangar doors opening, but the whir of Tracer racing past them is enough to rouse her from her thoughts. Zarya descends onto the barren desert scrub lands with her ( _temporary_ ) comrades.  Dust immediately buffets her face, though her arms are saved by the grace of the coat she wears ( _Siberia is colder than this by far_ , she had thought, but accepted the protective garment regardless).  A tumbleweed bounces in the distance, punctuating with its absurd unfamiliarity the surrealness of the moment.

English isn't Zarya's first language, but she likes to think she knows it fairly well by now -- knows the differences between turns of phrase that tend to stump the beginner or intermediate learner. She knows, for example, that a _slim chance_ and a _fat chance_ both describe something unlikely, and that  _guns_ can sometimes mean  _biceps,_  and  _shotgun_ can sometimes mean the passenger seat of a vehicle, depending on the context.

On the other hand, telling someone to watch _their own_ back (threateningly) is different from saying you'll watch it _for_ them (assuringly).

So either she understood the phrase correctly, and the omnic was promising to ensure her safety -- or she had fundamentally misunderstood the phrase, and the omnic was threatening her in kind.

Though Zarya is confident in her understanding of the English language, she is even  _more_ confident in her knowledge of the cruelty of omnics, so she settles upon the latter explanation.

Regardless, she needn't linger on the words of a machine.  Irritated at herself for her lapse in focus, she shakes her head and takes off after her ( _reluctant_ ) comrades toward the looming shadow of the omnium.

Memories of the interaction threaten to distract her on the mission, but she's here to keep a lookout, and she'll hardly lose sight of that just because an omnic deigned to speak to her.

* * *

Zarya patrols the halls while Winston mines the servers for whatever data remains, and Reinhardt keeps watch at the door.  If she were the omnium, she would have wiped _everything_ once she knew she was going to be deactivated.

But Zarya does not say this, either.

There are many things Zarya does not say.

The facility is clearly ailing under the inclement weather conditions of the American dustbowl (which, if she understood the woman correctly, was precisely what Mei had gone outside to observe), and as Zarya wanders its halls she finds comfort in its creaks and groans.  She is hardly an expert in the field of omnic production, but this place is far from a day where it could be capable of reactivating.

It is almost a comfort.

Venturing boldly deeper, she is close to the end of a long hall when she hears Tracer saying, "Kinda eerie, innit?"

Curious, Zarya looks out into the room Tracer is speaking from and understands the sentiment immediately: hundreds of omnics in various states of completion are hanging from a complicated series of conveyor belts and assembly lines.  Zarya feels cold when she imagines the havoc even _those_ could wreak, were they suddenly made active -- feels grateful that this omnium was shut down when it was.

For a moment she believes Tracer must have heard her coming, and is directing the question to her -- but before she can respond, Zarya hears another voice:

"More disturbing than the unknown is a distortion of the familiar."  The voice is electronic, reverberating and modulated: the omnic.  Zarya, now resigning herself to eavesdropping, foregoes approaching and leans against a nearby wall.  "It is disconcerting to see, held captive in a moment of time, what this place once was.  To imagine what destruction it might have caused, given time.  To imagine what my siblings might one day have become, given an opportunity."

Zarya is a little surprised by the machine's articulate speech and turn of phrase, but supposes she shouldn't be.  The thing probably has thousands of pithy motivational and philosophical phrases for every occasion saved to its drive.  It couldn't be hard to analyze when a particular one might be appropriate.

"Oh...  Chin up, luv!"  Tracer says.  "Now that a Russian omnium is active, this one could come back to life any day!  Only..." Tracer trails off, and Zarya can't help but cringe at the very thought.

"Yes," Zenyatta says, as if in answer to Zarya's private reaction.  "The situation in Russia is not what one might call... a _glowing recommendation_ of omnic-human relations."

Zarya barely manages to conceal a snort at the understatement, then curses silently at her indulgence.  What is she _doing_?  Some 'glowing recommendation' of her reliability it would be, if it turned out she was just snooping on her teammates on their first mission.  In fact, that would actually look quite bad.  She should go, she thinks.  She's on a mission, has a job to do -- only, everyone else on the team seems to consider this a low intensity job.  Why else would Tracer and the omnic be exchanging philosophical niceties in plain view of an omnic assembly line?  So with only a small measure of guilt, she resolves to stay within earshot.

The next time Tracer speaks, Zarya almost doesn't hear her: "I want to believe we can come together -- omnic and human, in understanding and tolerance.  But with things the way they are... it's hard to see a way forward sometimes."

Zarya grows somber to hear Tracer speak so sullenly.  Such idealism is naive beyond comprehension, but Tracer's grief is real.  It's difficult for Zarya not to sympathize with the suffering of a fellow woman.

"I have been in your place.  Uncertain.  Afraid that the path was lost to me.  And never more strongly than when my dear friend, Mondatta, was..."

Zarya leans forward, intrigued. She has never known an omnic to leave a sentence incomplete.

Though, really, she's never personally known an omnic in her life, so what does she know?

"All we can do," Zenyatta begins again, "is be an example of the harmony we want to bring to the world.  Put our best foot forward, so to speak."

"That'll be the day when I see you put your feet on _anything_ , Zenyatta," Tracer says with a watery laugh.  Zenyatta laughs gently with her.

When they finally make to leave the assembly room the way they had come, the hall is as empty as when they arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The shitpost that started it all can be found [here](http://rottenchicken.tumblr.com/post/145508268849/kinky).
> 
> And that initial exchange between Zarya and Zenyatta is [actual in-game pre-mission dialogue](http://overwatch.gamepedia.com/Zarya/Quotes) that can be triggered when Zarya and Zenyatta are on the same team.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. An Eye-Opener

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zarya clears the air with Winston and leaves with some private convictions.

Winston's debriefing is relatively simple (more memorable, in fact, is Tracer trying to sneak off to her room before he even begins): they did manage to salvage some data, but it remains to be seen if it will be useful or not; Winston and Athena will get to work on it and keep anyone interested in their findings updated.

When Winston asks who wants to be kept in the loop, even if their findings are non-mission-relevant, Zarya raises her hand, as does Tracer.

The omnic raises its hand as well.

Zarya just barely restrains the urge to glare at the omnic until it puts its hand down.

Afterward, Winston beckons Zarya over as the others are filing out.

"You wanted to see me?" she asks.

She wonders if he heard her threatening the omnic earlier.

"Yes, I did. On the matter of your weapon..."

"Ah. Of course," Zarya says. Her fingers flex, itching in its absence. "I would like it back as soon as possible, but I understand these things do not happen overnight. Please, take your time."

Winston grins, shoulders shaking with unrestrained excitement. "Actually, I have great news! While we were scouting the omnium, Athena finished up the research I'd set aside to do later..."

Zarya's brow furrows, but she belays the question. She's only been here a few days, so she'll forgive herself for not remembering which face among the many she's encountered belongs to this 'Athena'.

"... So it'll be much sooner than expected! I'll have her send word when it's ready for you to test it out."

"Very good," Zarya says distractedly. It is not very good. Her arms are achingly empty without the heft of her cannon to weigh them down. She's so light she feels ready to float away, like a balloon.

Winston's voice breaks through the fog. "Something on your mind?"

Zarya blinks back into the room.

"In truth," she says slowly, "it was not my understanding that Overwatch had omnics in its employ."

Winston has the gall to look surprised.  Zarya can't imagine why.  Russia has never had reason to forge stronger relations with the omnics, nor has any legislation been passed down regarding omnics being capable of acquiring citizenship, or any of the benefits such a thing would entail.

Also, Russia is currently in the midst of its _second_  Omnic Crisis, so Zarya isn't entirely sure what Winston was expecting.

She says as much.

To his credit, Winston actually looks sheepish at that. "Well, erm... Yes, you're right. I should have considered that might have been an issue." He sighs. "Adding you was a last-minute decision, so I didn't think everything through. But that's no excuse for putting you in a position that might have made you uncomfortable."

Zarya relaxes marginally. "I appreciate your understanding," she says.

Winston nods, then raises his formidable brow in question. "So you'd rather not be assigned to missions with Zenyatta in the future...?"

Zarya's _actual_ desire for Zenyatta does not bear mentioning in polite company.

"That would be ideal," she says instead.

Winston adjusts his glasses and lumbers over to his array of desks and computer screens. There are so many papers scattered on its surface that Zarya can't imagine how he finds anything. "All right, then. I'll take a look at the roster and start preparing more synergistic fireteams ahead of time."

Zarya doesn't often encounter the word "synergistic", but she understands the gist from context. "Thank you," she says.

"Making sure everyone works well together is my job," Winston says amiably. "Among other things... Actually, and I know you've only been here a short while, but is there anyone you think you'd work well with, or who you'd prefer to team up with on missions?"

Zarya gives this some thought. Thinks of Tracer's upbeat attitude -- of the sound of her uncertain voice echoing in the bones of the omnium.

(Zarya determinedly  _d_ _oes not_ imagine a younger Zarya, bouncing up and down and begging her parents to play the holo-vid of Tracer blowing up the big bad omnics, just one more time before bed, please?)

"Tracer," she decides.

Winston hums and writes something down.  "All right."

"And if it's not too much trouble...  That is, I would like..."  Zarya trails off damningly.  She could slap herself for speaking before choosing her words.

Winston gives her a strange look, and she decides to hurry up and say it before her face gets a chance to turn red.

Zarya clears her throat so she doesn't -- heaven forbid, she would die of mortification -- stutter on the name. "Reinhardt," she says.

Winston, bless his soul, makes no comment on her behavior -- though the quirk of his lips is entirely too indulgent for her tastes.

Zarya clears her throat again. "I-If there's anything else...?"

"No, no," Winston assures her, settling into the enormous tire in front of the desk. "I'll be up late working on a few personal projects, so feel free to drop by if you need me. We landed back at the watchpoint pretty late -- or early, depending on how you look at it.  Get some sleep. Take a few days to recover from jet lag, familiarize yourself with the base."

Zarya flew plenty when she was visiting distant schools for international youth weightlifting competitions, so she doubts it will take long for her to adjust to the time difference. She has, however, been running on no sleep for 36 hours or so, and that's as good an indication as any that it's time to turn in.

They bid each other a pleasant evening, and Zarya wanders out of the enormous lab and into the hall.

* * *

By the time Zarya actually finds the barracks, she's tired enough to sleep in a snow drift.

She didn't want to trouble Winston by asking where to find the barracks just after she'd left, when she  _knew_  she dropped her things in her room the day prior.  And by the time she realized she ought to have swallowed her pride and asked anyway, she wasn't sure how to get back to the lab.  Normally she was better at navigation than this, but the sleep deprivation was taking its toll on her mental faculties.

Eventually she found a map, albeit old and faded, and despite the way the English swam stubbornly out of her vision she managed to make enough sense of it to get to her room.

Zarya removes her jacket, considers hanging it up in the closet where it belongs -- then drops it on the floor and collapses on the bed.  She can barely remember dressing the bed with her sheets and the quilt her parents sent with her, but she's grateful that she had the presence of mind to do it when she arrived.  She certainly wouldn't have the energy to do it now.

Zarya stares up at the ceiling, thinking about whether or not she should take a shower.

She rolls over and curls into the familiar-smelling pillowcase instead.  Wonders if she'll be able to sleep without dreaming, tonight.

When she joined the Russian Defense Force, Zarya doubted her decision.  She later learned that almost everyone has second thoughts when they enlist, but at the time it was frightening to be so uncertain.  She could lift, but could she fight?  She was certainly willing to lay down her life for her country -- but dying wasn't enough.  Could she live?  Be an asset to her country?  Protect her homeland?

Now her doubts take an entirely different shape.

 _How am I going to fight alongside an omnic,_ she wonders, and snorts in tired humor.   _There's_ a thought she could never have imagined she would have reason to entertain.  Winston assured her that he would keep them separated as much as he could, but that still means the omnic is _here._  In the stronghold that is meant to protect them, from which they would plan their every move, an omnic lurks in a shape so strange that some have mistaken it for a friend.

Zarya doesn't understand how they can be so blind.

Overwatch fought the omnics in the first Omnic Crisis, as Zarya's parents had.  They knew the horrors the omnics were capable of, so how could they permit such a threat to enter their ranks?

Maybe it is not important why, Zarya decides -- or maybe it _is_ important, but as things stand, Zarya has no right to ask.  Maybe someone will take pity on her and tell her some day.

Zarya has no reason to believe that omnics have changed, or that they ever truly can.

But Overwatch is the only world power with a mind to address Russia's current predicament.

And Overwatch's agents have decided to entrust their safety to an omnic.

Zarya decides to put her grudge aside -- but safely within arm's reach.

She'll be ready for the day the omnic proves her right.


	3. Eye of the Beholder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zenyatta sees beauty in all things.
> 
> Zarya is no exception.

Upon discovering an appreciation of the aesthetic, Zenyatta felt as if the world had been made anew.  That day had been one of hundreds, no different from the rest: the omnics in the mountain rose with the sun; they performed their morning stretches, oiled their joints, and wrapped their feet in sturdy cloth to protect them from the elements.  They partook of the morning meditations; and afterward, they encouraged one another to share their thoughts in order to come closer to understanding the nature of existence.  

Zenyatta had dutifully shared the details of whatever passing daydream had been in mind when the session ended.  It was something of a discourtesy, perhaps, to be lost in thought when the others were applying all their mental energies to the exercise.  But Zenyatta felt restless.

(And this is how Zenyatta knows that Beauty is not a passive quality that can be observed, but an experience that inspires passionate action.)

The session concluded with everyone rising, bowing respectfully, and dispersing in amicable conversation.  Some retired to study what few texts were available to them; some tinkered and tended to the solar panels that gathered the energy upon which they relied; still others swept the snow and snowmelt from the temple, since it wouldn't do for the water to enter the cracks in the tiles and freeze again, exacerbating the damage to the tentative home they were slowly repairing.

Zenyatta had stepped into the sunlit courtyard of the temple, still undecided about how to spend the remainder of the day.  As the sun had risen, the clouds had bowed respectfully out of its path, and the snow-covered courtyard was brighter than ever, refracting a brilliance too splendid to look upon.  Zenyatta raised a hand to cast a shadow that would block the sun from view.

When the harshness of the glow eventually abated, Zenyatta lowered the hand and looked upon the temple courtyard as if seeing it for the first time.

The dewdrops on the dilapidated stone had gleamed with a new poignant quality.  The snow had glittered like piles of stars, and Zenyatta had been overcome with the urge to touch it.  The top layer was a firm crust, but it caved readily beneath gentle pressure, revealing the freshly-fallen, powder-soft snow best for shaping things.

Zenyatta had clenched a fist around the snow, marveling at the strange new emotions the sight of it was evoking.

Just then, Mondatta happened to enter the courtyard. 

Zenyatta had lobbed the misshapen snow at their colleague with gusto.

This had resulted in much spluttering, and some chiding, but in short order a proper snowball fight was underway, and each monk that stepped outside was dragged into the fray without exception.

The schedule of meditation and cleaning had been pushed to the next day, since it was clear they would have to spend the afternoon on cleaning  _only,_ once snowballs started being thrown in the temple interior.  And by that time they were too excitable and pleasantly agitated to focus for their evening session, so they had simply agreed to turn in for the night and leave reflection for another day.

In that impulsive moment, surrounded by nature and their beloved fellows, and a home in which they were welcome, Zenyatta understood a little more of tranquility -- and they would come to understand even more of tranquility, later.

But certainly that was the day that Zenyatta discovered Beauty.

Now, Zenyatta sees beauty in all things.  They see it in the embellishments their omnic peers add to their mechanical bodies, a form of expression so earnest and new that Zenyatta swells with tenderness to see it, goes out of their way to acknowledge it, validate it, encourage it.

Zenyatta sees beauty in nature, and not only in the underlying patterns that tend to emerge when one looks closely.  Uncontested are the mathematical beauty of a spiral growth pattern or crystal formation; universally admired is the seemingly improvised yet calculated descent of a cherry blossom or a maple seed.

But even the twisted and gnarled shape of two trees that have grown into one,  and the imprecise, asymmetrical patterns of leaves scattered on the ground in autumn; the unexpected eruption of sunspots across the sun's surface, and the terrifying, unexplored depths of the Earth's ocean -- beauty too, in these. 

Beauty even in the sharp planes and glowing nodes of his pupil's much-loathed prosthetic shell -- though Zenyatta knows enough of tact to let such thoughts remain unvoiced.

Zenyatta sees beauty in everything: every natural thing, every lovingly crafted thing, every sentient individual with aspirations and emotions and the essence of a soul.

Which brings Zenyatta to their current predicament.

Aleksandra Zaryanova ("Just Zarya is fine," the woman says to the room at large.  "It is what my squad calls-- called me.") is built more like a Bastion unit than a run-of-the-mill omnic such as Zenyatta -- and in fact, the only person in the room whose stature she remotely resembles is Reinhardt's.  This alone is not particularly remarkable, but much like the tableau of the temple courtyard, it is the combination of each of her features that Zenyatta finds striking.

Her hair is an expressive shock of pink, and her painted nails do not go unnoticed, either.  She is wearing an Overwatch-issue coat (though she looks uncomfortably warm in it from the way the sleeves are rolled up).  There are bags under her eyes -- from extended travel and little sleep, judging by Winston's brief explanation of her presence.  There is something in the shape of her jaw, the arches of her brow, that is pleasant to analyze even after the angles and vectors are catalogued in Zenyatta's mind.  Though she does not have a symmetrical face by any means -- Zenyatta wonders about the circumstances that must have left her such a nasty scar, and so close to her eye.

Winston gestures to each of them in turn, and Zarya acknowledges almost all of them with apparent recognition.

Then her eyes (an earthy brown, like the richest and most bountiful of soils) fall upon Zenyatta, and for an exquisite moment there is a hopeful uncertainty in the omnic's chest.

They recognize the tension in Zarya's stance immediately.

It is the rigid spine, the coiled muscle of one prepared to do violence.  The set of her jaw is grim and determined.

Zenyatta raises an open palm in greeting.  "Peace be upon you," they say.

Zarya is no longer looking  _at_ Zenyatta so much as  _through_ them. Whether or not she hears them is anyone's guess.  Tracer glances between the two, leaning forward discreetly.  A sensitive, reliable woman, Tracer.  In that moment Zenyatta appreciates her a little more.

Winston takes Zenyatta's response as an indication that introductions are over with, and he continues going over their objectives for the mission: reach the omnium, extract as much information from it as possible, return to Watchpoint: Grand Mesa.  Zarya, he informs them, will be accompanying them for reasons of personal interest.  Tracer catches Zenyatta's eye at this, and they silently share her unspoken concern.

If Zarya is this hostile toward Zenyatta, her personal interest is probably "omnics" -- which means that avoiding her won't be an effective tactic to prevent conflict, as Zenyatta is equally invested in the affairs of omnics and is liable to request and be assigned to the same missions as Zarya.

As a proactive first step, Zenyatta offers Zarya the seat beside them.  Tracer makes her way to the cockpit, pace sedate as she keeps one eye on the powder keg in the back of the aircraft.  Winston doesn't see the way Zarya's jaw shifts to indicate she is clenching her teeth, but she  _is_ in his range of vision.  She wordlessly accepts, plainly reluctant, and straps herself into the seat on Zenyatta's side.

The sound of the jet engines is too loud to maintain a conversation, and perhaps that is for the best.

Zarya's expression is so stormy that Zenyatta imagines it could sink a ship at sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nb friend: go ten paragraphs without gendering zenyatta so i know it's real  
> me: yea
> 
> Thanks for reading! c:
> 
> I wanted to let you guys know that I'm going to start updating this fic on Wednesdays! If you want to peek beneath the hood of the kinds of things that are on my mind when I'm writing, or you want to know if an installment might be early or late, you can check out my Overwatch-specific tumblr [orbofdiscourse](http://orbofdiscourse.tumblr.com).
> 
> And if you like what I do here and are willing to commit to seeing literally everything I'm interested in all the time. you can also hit me up on my main tumblr [skullopendra](httpL//skullopendra.tumblr.com/)!


	4. Bloodshot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A memory.

Zarya huddles behind the embankment with her squad.  Gunfire is a downpour around them.

"We're out of ammunition!" Petrova reports.

Zarya curses.  That was really the last of it.  She looks out over her squad.  They're exhausted, huddled in this frozen, squalid ditch waiting for the omnics to kill them.  Their eyes are searching hers desperately, but she can't exactly make bullets out of thin air.  She looks down in thought.

They're the last line of defense for Zarya's village.  There's no way the fortifications will be complete in time if they can't hold the omnics off for longer.

"Mother Russia will come for us," Kusnetsov says desperately.

Zarya stiffens.  They can't sit there waiting for the Russian Defense Force proper to arrive.  They have to hold them off longer if their village has any hope of standing.  "I am Mother Russia!" Zarya booms.  She has to break through their fear to get them to fight.  She knows they can.  Zarya digs her fingers into the embankment and crawls up the steep incline.

"Zarya!  What are you doing?!"  Petrova cries.

The tank's treads are spinning in the icy mud.  It's stuck on the burm they dug in a frenzy the previous night.  Daring, foolish, delirious, Zarya climbs the tank to the shouting protests of her squad.  Its cannon is spinning wildly in search of a target.  Zarya doesn't even know if another omnic is piloting the vehicle.

She doesn't care.

With a mighty heave, she seizes the base of the cannon and pulls.  Her back strains with the effort, and part of her demands to know just what she thinks she's going to accomplish.  Yet the creak and groan of the struts and supports eggs her on, and with a roar she pulls the cannon free.

The cannon is still sputtering dangerously with electrical discharge, its antigrav blasts flickering: she aims it downrange, and the absence of the tank's support in addition to the unexpected usage of their own firepower against them makes the omnics retreat.

For now.

Zarya jumps down from the tank.  She drops the cannon into the snow and turns around, limps over to the trench.  So much of her is numb.  "Still need Mother Russia?" she calls, breathless, grinning wolfishly.

Her squad members -- Kusnetsov, Petrova, Vasilyev, Mikhaylova -- are lying in the trench, cold as the snow.

The heat of victory rushes from her in a gust.

Omnics are crawling over their corpses like misshapen metal spiders.  Zarya backs away -- stumbles over the particle cannon and into the hard-packed snow, to her back's protest.

"No," Zarya says.  She left her squad, she thinks.  She left them alone, and because she wanted to be a hero they died without her.

Zarya reaches for the particle cannon, devoid of any charge that might have defended her.  It is too heavy to lift.  A shadow falls over her, and Zarya looks up.

Omnics surround her.  Their faces glow menacingly, inexplicably more bright and terrible than the refracting light of the snow flurrying around her.

"This is not how it happened," Zarya attempts to shout, but her throat is tight and it comes out as a whisper.  Enraged and terrified by her own powerlessness, Zarya attempts to muster up the strength to stand and fight.

A heavy weight settles over her.

She cannot move.

The omnics close ranks around her, and inside her soul Zarya is thrashing.  The omnics can tear her limb from limb, but let her fight hand and foot, tooth and nail until there is nothing left of her, nothing but a wretched, bleeding thing that only knows how to destroy.

Zarya would take that over just lying useless in the cold.

Waiting.

The snow flurry of the sky is blotted out by the silhouettes of the omnics.

Zarya's throat closes.

A metal hand presses against her eye.

* * *

 

Zarya ends up showering after all.

Since sleep is determined to escape her tonight (it's morning now, she acknowledges distantly), Zarya musters all her navigational skills to locate the gym facilities.

It can't be later than 5 o'clock, yet when she finally finds them, Reinhardt is there.  He's using what looks like an adjustable cable crossover, but reinforced to endure even greater amounts of weight.

Zarya has half a mind to turn straight around and head back to her room -- maybe she'll just do push-ups by the bed, or find an exposed banister to do pull-ups from in one of the storage rooms -- but Reinhardt calls out to her before she can escape his notice.

Reinhardt does not interrupt his repetitions, but his expression of exertion morphs into a winning smile.  "Zarya! My sister from Mother Russia!"

Zarya feared that her current mood would have her forcing a smile, but Reinhardt's unexpected warmth inspires a genuine one.  "Good morning, Reinhardt," she says, resisting the urge to straighten her hair subconsciously.  He's hardly her commanding officer, though where Overwatch as a whole stands as a military operation is bound to continue giving her anxiety if she doesn't receive guidance on it soon.  Who does she report to?  Can she leave the Watchpoint whenever she wants?  "Getting an early start, are you?"

"And you as well, I see!  I should have expected nothing less from a world-class weightlifter and soldier.  But surely you are tired from your travels?"

Zarya sees the invitation to speak her mind for what it is -- but her nightmares are too close (the jaws of them gnash behind her ear; their cold breaths blow across her shoulder) for her to feel comfortable speaking of them.  As if voicing her fears would loose their chains, and set them upon her like wolves.

"I am a little tired," she admits, "but nothing can keep me from the gym!"  She flexes theatrically, and Reinhardt roars with laughter.

"Excellent!  May I ask what you have in mind?"

Zarya doesn't have anything in mind, really.  She was so focused on finding a place to workout that she hadn't given thought to what she might do when she found it.  "I was going to stretch first," she fibs -- a minute ago she had been far too furious to do anything of the sort -- "but after that, since we're both here... perhaps a race?"

"Ha!"  Reinhardt looks overjoyed.  "A fine idea!"

Zarya glows with Reinhardt's acceptance.  Tries to keep the stars out of her eyes as he releases the weights and stretches his enormous arms.

"And I know just the place," Reinhardt goes on.  "The perimeter of the Watchpoint is a mile and a half -- first one to do two laps is winner?"

"And winner buys drinks?" Zarya suggests.  Then, "... We can drink, can't we?"

"Of course!" Reinhardt says, sounding scandalized by the mere suggestion.  "I like the way you think, Zarya!"

Zarya gestures for Reinhardt to lead on. He does, speaking loudly the whole way, filling Zarya’s head with comfortable noise that goes a long way toward crowding out the terrible silence behind her.

* * *

Reinhardt pushes himself a little too hard and tires himself out early, so Zarya, who paces herself, ends up defeating Reinhardt by sprinting at the last quarter-mile.  Reinhardt left something in his locker, so they're walking back to the gym facilities together and enjoying the companionable atmosphere.  "Well," Reinhardt is panting, "I _was_ already worn out from my work-out, earlier."

Zarya finds the justification ungraceful, but she concedes that it is true, at least.  "What," she says, still a little breathless, "did you expect me to pass up a handicap against the inimitable Reinhardt Wilhelm?"

"Inimitable!" Reinhardt barks with laughter.  "Is good word!  Haven't heard that one in a while!"

Zarya smiles, her mouth fitting into the shape easily after a solid half hour in Reinhardt's company.  Though she knew from televised interviews and holo-vids that Reinhardt was friendly, it was a different experience entirely to be in his presence.  It was like standing in the rays of the sun, a little.

"Ah, friends!  Good morning to you!"

This gives Zarya pause, since she does not see anyone in the hallway save the two of them; but after a moment's consideration Zarya detects the faint sound of music coming from Reinhardt's other side.  She almost laughs when she realizes his body is blocking her view of an entire doorway.  She doesn't try and lean around him to see who he's talking to, but when he ducks under the door frame she follows him without thinking twice.

" _Ohayou Gozaimasu._  Good morning, Reinhardt."

There is a strange quality to the voice that Zarya, ears rushing with her pulse and mental faculties scattered with exertion, does not find herself capable of parsing immediately.  Reinhardt steps out of her line of sight, and she finally sees to whom he is speaking --

"Peace be upon you."

Zarya's stomach drops into her feet.

Her body rails against her.  The looseness that had begun to spread to even her fingertips recoils in outrage; the sweat that had provided a pleasantly cool counterpoint to her core's heat turns to ice; and Reinhardt, she thinks, is smiling at the omnic and its companion.  The... two omnics?

"... a little friendly competition," Reinhardt is saying.  "Isn't that right, Zarya?"

"Yes, well," Zarya says at length, "I may have cheated by interrupting your workout, so perhaps our next race," --  _which will be never,_ Zarya thinks, _because I am locking myself in my quarters and never coming out again -- "_... will end more favorably for you."

Reinhardt laughs aloud.  "Oh, I am not so sure!  I am an old man now, after all.  I don't know if I can keep up with you young people much longer."  Reinhardt gestures toward the omnic with which Zarya is familiar, and the one with which she is not.  "Even you, Zenyatta!  You were on the same mission, and yet here you are, bright and early!"

"Every day is a gift," the omnic says mysteriously. "It would not do to waste it."

"Master!" the unfamiliar omnic protests, "if I had known you were up all night, I would not have woken you so early for our meditations..."

 _Meditation?_  Zarya thinks dubiously.  If an omnic wants to empty its mind, surely all it has to do is... go into standby mode?

"It is no trouble," the omnic says, "it is always an honor to spend time in the company of my brightest pupil."

 _Pupil,_ Zarya echoes, head spinning.

The unfamiliar omnic seems to give up the conversation as one that is frequently had and never fully resolved, and turns, inexplicably, to Zarya.  "Forgive me.  We have not been introduced."  The unfamiliar omnic bows in a very distinct way that, in her confusion, Zarya is having inordinate difficulty placing.  "I am Genji. My master tells me you are the strongest woman in the world. It will be an honor to fight alongside you."

Zarya forgives herself for the slowness of her thoughts, in consideration of the overwhelming amount of information she is processing -- and also, since she is worn out from her race with Reinhardt.

(Not a minute ago, a traitorous thought pipes up, she was thinking of Reinhardt as "ungraceful" for such a justification. Zarya quashes the thought mercilessly.)

"Genji... Shimada?" Zarya says, dazed, and logic alone would have prevented her from saying anything if not for the accent, and the name, and the very particular way of bowing --

"Ah! Then you've heard of me," the unfamiliar omnic says. And even though it is validating her conclusion, Zarya takes no joy in it.  Its answer is tearing at the walls of everything she knows.

Genji Shimada is human, a member of the original Overwatch... he'd had...

"And if I may pay you a compliment... I think your hair is quite lovely," the unfamiliar omnic says.  "I used to dye mine, before..."

"It was green," Zarya says, numb. "I saw you in the holo-vids."

By his body language, he might be blushing. "Yes, that's right."

"Ah, so you were a fan in your youth!" Reinhardt says.

Zarya is already flushed from her workout, but her face reddens even more when Reinhardt says that.  She remembers a very distinctive poster hanging on her bedroom wall, looking up at it in admiration, flexing and holding her biceps up to Reinhardt's for comparison.

"O-Of course. Even if Russia defeated the omnic threat on its own, you were... celebrities."  There were trading cards, she remembers.

She hopes her parents don't send hers.

"Would you like to join us for some meditation, and perhaps some light stretching?" the omnic inquires.

"It is important to stretch before _and_ after rigorous physical activity!" Reinhardt says, parroting what Zarya had said when she insisted on stretching before their race outside the Watchpoint perimeter.

"I apologize, but I have... a phone call to make," Zarya says.  "Please excuse me. And ah, enjoy your meditation."

"Of course."

"It was an honor to make your acquaintance."

"Do not be a stranger!"

Zarya beats a quick retreat, grabbing a few bottles of water from the kitchen (which Reinhardt had been kind enough to point out) before returning to her room.

Zarya lays across the bed of tangled sheets.  Even in the gym facilities, the omnic lurks.

And Genji Shimada called it his master.

Zarya feels bile rise in her throat, but she swallows it down with a gulp of water.

The strangest thing, to her, is that Reinhardt didn't even bat an eye.  And he has certainly killed more omnics than her.

Zarya showers again.

The sun is just beginning to rise when she finally lays back in bed again.

Zarya hopes her exhaustion is enough to stave off the nightmare gnashing at her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks! Chapter 5 oughta be up next Wednesday, so keep an eye out for it. c: Barring large changes, it'll almost certainly be in Zenyatta's POV.
> 
> Also, I wanna say that I really appreciate everyone's comments so far! It really brightens my day to see someone liked what I wrote enough to leave a message. c': And on that note, constructive criticism is welcome as well! If you think I've characterized someone in a way that doesn't make sense, or their dialogue is off, or you just noticed a spelling error or something, don't hesitate to let me know about that too!
> 
> And thanks again for reading! c:


	5. A Sight for Sore Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How does one determine,” as Paul Churchland characterizes it, “whether something other than oneself— an alien creature, a sophisticated robot, a socially active computer, or even another human— is really a thinking, feeling, conscious being; rather than, for example, an unconscious automaton whose behavior arises from something other than genuine mental states?” Or to put it in the more skeptical language employed by David Levy, “how would we know whether an allegedly Artificial Conscious robot really was conscious, rather than just behaving-as-if-it-were-conscious?”
> 
> Gunkel, David J., The Machine Question: Critical Perspectives on AI, Robots, and Ethics (p. 55). The MIT Press. Kindle Edition.

Zarya manages a few more hours of fitful sleep before there is a knock on her door somewhere between late- and mid-morning.  The woman standing in the hall introduces herself as "Satya Vaswani," says she is there to issue Zarya her tech and install a biometric lock on her door.  “Winston asked me to come by this evening,” she says, “but if you are amenable, I would prefer to do it sooner rather than later.”

Zarya belatedly takes in the woman's appearance.  She is nearly a foot shorter than Zarya, with rich dark skin and hair the color of blackest night.  Her left arm is prosthetic, glossy and modern and gleaming with either newness or conscientious maintenance.

A long moment passes before the English resolves itself into something comprehensible in Zarya’s mind, and it takes her a hot second to come up with a definition for the word ‘amenable’.  When she finally understands, Zarya blinks away the lingering traces of sleep and invites the woman inside.

After signing a few digital documents with her handprint, Zarya makes herself comfortable on her bed and familiarizes herself with her new Overwatch-issue tablet.  Vaswani bolts the biometric scanning mechanisms into the door and frame.

She does not attempt to make idle conversation.

Zarya can respect this.

“It is done,” Vaswani says eventually.  Zarya comes over and sees that it is.  “Please come into the hall to test the lock.”

The lock dutifully rejects Vaswani’s handprint and accepts Zarya’s with a satisfying chime.  When she removes her hand, the screen reads, "Welcome home! :)"

“You can change the greeting from your tablet, as well as permissions,” Vaswani says.  “It is my understanding that you just arrived, but I would like to ask all the same: is there anyone else on the team you would like to have access to your room?”

Zarya can’t think of anyone she knows well enough.

“No," she says, "there is no one.”

“I see.  Thank you,” Vaswani says, typing away on her own tablet as Zarya opens the door again.  “I will send you the manual in your Overwatch email; for that, you will find a configuration suite on your tablet.  It will request biometric verification the first time you open it, and it will prompt you to set a password -- so remember it well.”

Zarya rubs her eyes, the technical phrasing grinding through the sleep-rusted gears of her mind with painful, screeching fits and starts.  “I understand.”

Vaswani’s blank stare makes Zarya think that her response has not inspired confidence -- but if Vaswani has doubts, she does not voice them.  Her attention refocuses on her tablet.  “Are you wearing your earpiece?” she asks.

Zarya nods, touching it.

“Please activate it as I showed you before, and perform a comms check.”

Zarya activates the earpiece.  “This is Zarya," she says.  "Radio check, over.”

“This is Winston; acknowledged.”

“Satya,” the woman in front of her says, perfunctory.  Zarya is surprised at the short delay between the woman speaking and the earpiece echoing her.  The equipment must be very advanced.  "Acknowledged."  Vaswani deactivates her microphone.  “Now--”

“Lucio, here -- you’re comin’ in loud and clear, Zarya!”

If Zarya weren’t too exhausted to express emotions, it might be a struggle to restrain a laugh at the way Vaswani’s face immediately crumples into a disdainful frown.  “Do not mind _him_ ,” Vaswani says, tone suddenly sharp.  “He is--”

“Reinhardt, at your service!”

“Tracer here!”

Vaswani rubs her temples delicately.  Zarya bites back a grin.

“Would ye quit cloggin’ the channels with yer jabberin’--”

“Welcome to the mix, Zarya.”

While Vaswani is still recovering, Zarya thanks them for their assistance and signs off of the channel.

“Don’t be a stranger!” Tracer says, and the channel goes quiet.

Vaswani waits a moment longer to be sure the line _stays_ quiet, and she sighs.  “I recommend you keep the microphone off unless you need it, but otherwise keep the incoming audio online whenever you can.  It is to facilitate communication in case of emergencies.  It is waterproof, so you can even wear it in the shower.”

Zarya accepts this easily enough.  It’s reassuring to know that her team is only a button press away.

Vaswani hums, her attention already shifting to her tablet.  “I recommend setting up your email immediately, as Winston may want to keep you up to speed on any new developments while you’re on recovery.  You may also take out your earpiece if you deem it a distraction from your rest, but please be vigilant, if you do.”

Zarya doesn’t plan on taking the earpiece out for the foreseeable future, but she nods anyway, stifling a yawn.

Vaswani offers her a half-smile.  “I will leave you to your rest.  Please do not hesitate to contact me via email if you need anything.”

“Of course,” Zarya says.  She leads Vaswani to the door.  Holds out her hand.  “Thank you for your assistance.”

Vaswani blinks at Zarya’s hand as if she is unsure of what to do with it.  When she does take it, Zarya grins to feel the strength and confidence in Vaswani’s grip.

Vaswani's half-smile stretches just a little wider.  “I am here to help,” she says.

* * *

 Zarya’s email has two messages from Vaswani.  They include instructions for operating the biometric lock and her earpiece, and the woman signs off with:

\- Satya :)

_Cute,_ Zarya thinks with an indulgent smile.

There is also a message from Winston asking her to meet him in his workshop that evening after Vaswani finishes installing the lock on her door.

And there is a message from Athena.  Zarya feels bad that she still can’t place the woman’s face, but she does remember Winston mentioning that she had helped him research Zarya’s weapon.

The message is structured like an automated welcome to the Overwatch organization and the email service, but at the end Athena has included a footnote about Zarya’s weapon and directed Zarya to the attachments, where there are blueprints and research, if Zarya desires to read them -- so she knows the woman must have written it herself.

Zarya dutifully responds in acknowledgment to Winston, and in thanks to Vaswani and Athena.

* * *

When Zarya arrives at Winston's workshop, her weapon is half-disassembled on a mostly-cleared work table; Winston and Torbjörn are talking over it.  Empty cans are strewn about the table and a nearby wastebasket.  Winston sees her first and calls her over.

“There you are, Zarya!  Your weapon turned out to be a little more complicated than I expected,” he admits.  “I had to call Torbjörn in for assistance -- omnic technology is a little outside my area of expertise.”

Zarya goes to a loose parade rest when Torbjörn looks up at her from Winston’s work bench.  “It is an honor to have my weapon in your capable hands.”

Torbjörn has to raise his eyebrows up as high as they’ll go to meet Zarya’s eyes without tilting his head back.  “Pah!  I was wondering how ye lift the damn thing, but now it’s not such a mystery.”

Zarya grins with pride.  Then she takes in the sight of her weapon, gutted and misshapen on the work table.  “So what is the problem?"

Winston rubs his chin and says, “Well, it’s in fairly decent shape, considering your, eheh, unconventional method of acquiring it.  So it’ll fire all right for a while, but there is the matter of powering it back up again.”

“Yes, I also considered this,” Zarya says. “Surely whatever is powering it will eventually wear down.”

“Precisely!” Torbjörn says, holding up one of the complex mechanisms that make up its many internal parts. “It is a particle cannon: it outputs kinetic energy to disrupt your target on the molecular level.  Which means you need a way to keep it charged with kinetic energy.”  Torbjörn puts the mechanism down and picks up the can at his elbow to drink from it.  Wipes his mouth with his arm.

Belatedly, Zarya realizes he is drinking alcohol.  Whiplashing in her chest is the fear of a commanding officer coming in and seeing what he’s doing, but -- Winston is the closest thing they have to a commanding officer.  And he’s standing right beside him.  Zarya takes a deep breath and realizes they seem to be waiting for her input.  She stalls, not expecting to be included in the discussion.  “I could… carry a battery pack,” she hazards.  “As long as it’s not too heavy, I should be fine.”

“And what’s too heavy?” Torbjörn asks, gesturing toward her shoulder tattoo and taking another sip of beer.  “Five hundred twelve pounds?”

“Kilograms,” Zarya corrects.  She takes gratification in the way Torbjörn chokes on his drink.  Winston snorts as if it's no less than the man deserves.

“Well,” Torbjörn says eventually, “yes, that’d do, I suppose.  But I was thinkin’ more along the lines of...”  He spreads out some blueprints that Zarya can only partially understand.

“A force field?” she surmises from the prevalence of circles, approaching the table for a closer look.

“It could only be up for a couple seconds to be worth the trade-off,” Torbjörn says.  “But if yer under fire, ye’d spare your personal shields the blow by usin’ yer weapon’s barrier -- and that’d gather enough kinetic energy for ye to start firin’ again.”

“That would be… interesting,” Zarya allows, already imagining the types of scenarios in which such a feature could be useful.

Winston taps the table in thought.  “Do you think we could make the barrier compatible with the rest of the team’s gear?  That way it would be functional in even more situations,” he suggests.

“Don’t see why not,” Torbjörn says.  “So long as the one firing the weapon feels up to the responsibility.”  At this, he raises a brow at Zarya in question.

Zarya envisions vividly the tableau of her comrades-in-arms lying in a snowy trench.   _That’s not how it happened,_ she reminds herself, but the idea of using her strength to help her teammates even a little is one she is unwilling to let pass her by.

“I can handle it,” Zarya assures them.  “When will it be ready?”

Torbjörn laughs.  “It’ll be ready when it’s ready,” he says, jovially noncommittal.

At Zarya’s dismayed, longing look toward the weapon, Winston laughs and pats her shoulder.  “Don’t worry.  I’ll keep him on task.”

“Like hell ye will,” Torbjörn mutters into his beer, but it sounds like a token protest.  He peers into the empty can and tosses it in the general direction of the wastebasket.  It clatters across the cement floor.  “I think it’s pretty gutsy to use an omnic weapon. Not that I’d do it -- but I can respect you puttin’ it back in human hands and turnin’ it against the damn tin men.”

“Omnics aren’t our only enemies any more,” Winston says gently, “but I, too, must commend your ingenuity in the heat of battle.  That sort of thinking will serve you well in Overwatch.”

Zarya glows beneath the praise.

“Actually,” Torbjörn says, “and lemme’ be straight with ye -- there’s parts in this cannon I’ve never seen the likes of.”  He plucks at his beard.  “I didn’t deal directly with the armaments of the omnics, but I put hands on ‘em, at least, back in the day.  Never seen anything like some of the parts in this weapon.”

Dread pools in Zarya’s gut.  “What kinds of ‘parts’ are we talking about?”

“Mostly minor improvements,” he says grudgingly, as if the suggestion that an omnic could improve something man-made is offensive to him.  “But some of it…  Well, there’s no tellin’.  Could be a reactor for power, a wireless access point, a remote detonation device...”

“This does not inspire me with confidence,” Zarya admits.

Torbjörn waves a hand in dismissal.  “I know how ye feel, but ye _are_ workin’ with enemy tech, here.  It’s a calculated risk, one ye must have considered--”

Zarya _had_ considered it, of course -- it’s just that in the moment, that had been the least of her worries.  And now she is attached to it, the way it fits against her when she fires it from the hip, its strange and rigid curves and its dings and dents --

And of course, its ability to destroy omnics with brutality and proficiency.

“--but just to be safe,” Torbjörn is saying as he and Winston begin to reassemble the weapon, “when we get this back to ye, just swing by every couple of days and I’ll start in on reverse engineering it.  See what we can take out for safety’s sake -- what we can leave.”

“Very well,” Zarya says.  Sensing that this concludes their business, Zarya adds, “I appreciate all the hard work you two are putting into this.”

“Oh, well,” Winston says, adjusting his glasses bashfully.  “It’s no trouble.  This will make you mission capable, and the team at large more efficient!”

“And I confess to a personal interest in this weapon ye’ve got, here.”  Torbjörn hops down from the work bench and wipes grease from the weapon’s innards on his pants.  The weapon is in one piece again.  It’s reassuring for Zarya just to lay her eyes on it.  “Oh,” Torbjörn says, “and uh, so long as ye _are_ here…”

Realization crosses Winston’s face as Torbjörn trails off.  “Oh, right!  We agreed that Torbjörn ought to be the one to perform any modifications the weapon may need, but it’s too heavy for either of us to move to his workshop.”

Zarya flexes with a healthy dose of showmanship.  “Perhaps I can be of some assistance?”

Torbjörn barks out a laugh.  “Lord above -- don’t let this one meet Reinhardt, Winston.”

“I am afraid you are too late,” Zarya informs him as she hefts up her weapon -- relishes the way it fits into her hands.  “Reinhardt and I will bring the watch point to its knees with our muscles.”

Torbjörn roars with drunken laughter.  Zarya does not think it was quite that funny, but she basks in the gratification all the same as they bid Winston a pleasant evening and she carries her weapon to Torbjörn’s workshop in the basement.

“If I may pose the question,” Zarya says, “why do you and Winston not share a workshop?  The watch point may have plenty of space, but would this not be more efficient?”

“Eh,” Torbjörn hedges. “he wants to make himself available to the team by puttin’ his workshop in a central location.   _I_ , on the other hand, prefer to be as far from all the nonsense as possible.”

Zarya respects this.

“Also,” Torbjörn says conspiratorially, “I hate working with tin cans.  Can’t trust ‘em.”

This gives Zarya pause, because a tin can strikes her as something rather strange to mistrust -- and furthermore she distinctly remembers Torbjörn being the one to leave beer cans strewn about Winston’s work area, and Winston not drinking at all.  “You are speaking figuratively,” Zarya decides, though in regards to what she cannot say.

Torbjörn scoffs.  “Yer familiar with Athena, aren’t ye?”  They are standing before Torbjörn’s workshop.  He opens the door so Zarya can enter with both hands still on her weapon.

Zarya still, for the life of her, cannot remember the woman’s face, but she knows that she has her to thank for expediting Winston’s research on her weapon.  From what she sent Zarya, it’s actually quite an interesting read.  “Do you not get along with her?” Zarya asks, stepping inside after him.

Torbjörn rolls his eyes dramatically.  He seems like a dramatic man already, but Zarya attributes the exaggeration of the motion to the alcohol.  “Not _you,_ too,” he grumbles, irate for some reason.

Frustrated with what she perceives as a lack of communication, Zarya lays her weapon down on the nearest table she can find and turns to Torbjörn with her hands on her hips.  “Torbjörn,” she huffs.  And she feels strange addressing someone she looked up to for so long with such an impatient tone, but her patience has been thin since she arrived  “You are not being clear.  Can you speak plainly?”

Torbjörn lets the door of his workshop fall shut.  “I helped _design_ the omnics,” Torbjörn says, apropos of nothing that Zarya can see.  He walks with only a slight stumble to join Zarya by the table.  “I like my machines doin’ as I program ‘em to -- so when they started goin’ against their programming I didn’t take it too kindly.”  It sounds like an old hurt, one that has smoothed over into ropey scar tissue, because he doesn’t sound distressed in the slightest when he speaks of it.

“I don’t _like_ artificial intelligence systems -- what’s the point of havin’ a machine to make yer job easier, if it’s just going to wander off and do as it pleases?  It’s not _logical,_ and that’s what machines are _for_ \-- bein’ logical.  If they can’t do that, then they’re no more efficient than the folks they were built to replace.”

While Zarya agrees with Torbjörn on principle, she still isn’t quite following.  “What does this have to do with Athena?”

Torbjörn gives Zarya a strange look.

“Athena,” he says slowly, “is the artificial intelligence system Winston made to keep Overwatch’s affairs in order.  And to be his damn life counselor, I s’pose, since the thing’s always naggin’ him to eat and sleep.”

Zarya stares.

Torbjörn reads her surprise fairly accurately.  “What did ye think she was?”

Zarya feels like a fool.  “Winston kept mentioning her... _it,_ so familiarly, I thought…  I must have forgotten meeting her.” _It,_ her mind corrects, but Zarya isn’t ready to sort out how she’s going to address Athena right now.  She's still reeling from the realization that she was thinking of a computer program as a person.

“Oh,” Torbjörn says, looking equal parts sympathetic and uncomfortable.  “Er, sorry ‘bout that.  Didn’t realize ye didn’t know.”

_I never asked,_ she thinks, embarrassed.  Torbjörn must think she’s a lumbering fool with biceps for brains.  “I haven’t gotten much sleep,” she murmurs, humiliated that she's resorted to making excuses.

Torbjörn pats her knee consolingly.  Ordinarily she would object to the familiar touch, but he’s not tall enough to reach her shoulder, so she allows it.  “Get some rest, then.  I’ll contact ye when yer weapon’s ready.”

Despite napping nearly the entire day, Zarya feels drained all over again.  “Thank you.  Good night, Torbjörn.”

He waves her away kindly enough, and Zarya departs from his workshop.

She stands in the hall, feeling numb.

Zarya supposes she has no right to feel betrayed, since Athena had never pretended to be a person -- but that doesn’t stop her chest from burning as if she had been as she trudges back up the stairs to the ground level.

When she arrives back at her room, the biometric access panel blinks a cheerful blue at her.

Zarya stares at it for a long moment.

She turns on her heel and walks away from it.

She’s spent enough time in her room for one day.

Despite the late hour, Zarya uses a map to track down a roof access point.  She settles down on the uncomfortable concrete and watches as the sun descends over the Grand Mesa, trees and mountains reaching up toward the sky like shadowy stalagmites in the dusky light.

No one disturbs her, and with her gaze pointed out toward the horizon there isn’t a single trace of technology as far as the eye can see.

Zarya’s earpiece crackles.

“Genji and I have prepared dinner, if anyone is interested.”

Zarya hisses.  It had to be the damn omnic.

“Food!” Lucio’s voice cheers.

“Well, thank ya kindly, Zenyatta,” another voice says.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” Winston says, “I’m just in the middle of something.”

And fainter, like it’s someone standing next to Winston that is speaking: “Go _now,_ Winston.  You slept through breakfast, and you worked through lunch.”

“All right, all right…” Winston grumbles -- seems to remember his mic is on and cuts the feed.

Amid the laughter and teasing of the others on the comm link, Zarya thinks, _That’s Athena,_ and then she deliberately doesn't think of anything at all.

Carefully, so as to avoid accidentally activating the microphone, Zarya removes her earpiece and lays it on the roof beside her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zarya: Zenyatta is a robot, Genji is a robot, Athena is a robot, my gun is a robot -- are there any other robots I should know about?!  
> Bastion: *beeping and whistling*  
> Zarya: *shoving her particle cannon into her purse* I have to go right now immediately
> 
> Wow when will Zarya stop being betrayed by robots! Is it never??? Let's be real it's probably never.
> 
> Anyway, you know those "large changes" I mentioned that might impact the POV of this chapter? Well they went and happened! So y'all get Zarya this week. I'd apologize, but I also happen to think this is the thing that benefits the narrative most at this juncture! So I won't. c:
> 
> By the way! BIG shout-out to [magicgenetek](http://archiveofourown.org/users/magicgenetek/pseuds/magicgenetek), who is not my official beta or anything but who is a lovely person who is occasionally available to lay eyes on my work and give me the input I need to make it better. Go check out her stuff!!


	6. A Second Point of View

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zenyatta confides in Genji.

_Mondatta’s chassis catches Zenyatta’s eye, dripping with snowmelt dewdrops in the flickering firelight as they talk into the fading evening. Zenyatta’s chest is warm, and there is a fluttering tension there, too.  Its presence is unaccountable, yet inexplicably soothing.  There is a sense of satisfaction -- as if Zenyatta had been born just to experience this fleeting feeling._

_The capricious flame casts shadows and sparks without discretion, illuminating their faces as the night wears on.  The heat of the hearth gradually dims and fades, flickering out with the first rays of sunlight reflecting off the monastery floor._

“Master,” Genji says, “forgive me for presuming, but you seem uncharacteristically distracted today.”

Zenyatta uncurls from their meditative pose and descends to the yoga mat in seiza, releasing a sigh replete with things unspoken.  “You are right, Genji,” Zenyatta laments.  “I apologize for my inattention.  I do not know what has come over me.”

Genji holds up a hand.  Zenyatta can see the smile in the set of his shoulders.  “I am hardly going to scold you,” he says in good humor.

“That won’t stop me from feeling accountable if I distract you from your meditations.”

“Master,” Genji laughs, “Your welfare and happiness are more important than a lost meditation session or two.  Please -- what is troubling you?”

In this moment, Zenyatta feels pride in Genji.  It was not long ago that Zenyatta spoke similarly to their student, whose many grievances and anxieties prevented _him_ from focusing.

 _The student has become the teacher,_ Zenyatta thinks.

But then, they suppose this is simply the nature of friendship.

“I am… not entirely certain,” Zenyatta admits.

Genji tilts his head.  “Surely if your thoughts will not rest, there is a unifying subject or feeling that ties them together?”

“A feeling… yes,” Zenyatta says thoughtfully.  “Perhaps I am experiencing a new emotion.”  They are still young, after all -- younger even than Genji, and an insular lifestyle in a monastery does little to expose one to the complexities of a complete emotional experience.

Genji straightens.  “Truly?  Master, if that is the case, then I would be honored to help you identify it.”

Zenyatta is silent for a long moment.  Then they say, “Do you remember meeting Zarya yesterday?”

After their unexpected encounter, Zenyatta had not seen the woman for the rest of the day.  They suppose that Zarya may have had personal reasons for leaving so suddenly, and for being absent at dinner -- certainly Zenyatta had not seen her at a single meal since her arrival, and neither the rhyme nor the reason to her appearances or absences were any of Zenyatta’s business.

But Zenyatta cannot put these curiosities from their mind.

Genji leans back, clearly not expecting the direction his line of inquiry has taken.  Zenyatta imagines him blinking beneath his visor.  “Yes?" Genji hazards. "It seemed she got on well with Reinhardt.  However..."

“However?” Zenyatta prompts.

Genji taps his chin thoughtfully, then unfolds from his butterfly pose and stands.  “If we may give up the pretense of meditation, Master, perhaps it would be better to discuss these matters over tea?”

Genji holds his hand out for Zenyatta to rise.

Zenyatta ducks their head in a smile.  “That is a fine idea, Genji.”

They take their student’s hand and rise to their feet, and the pair of them leave the room walking in step.

* * *

Genji dons his sleepwear yukata in the privacy of his room.  He opens the window, and in consideration of Zenyatta he sets alight a stick of lavender incense, which his master prefers.  They sit (Genji seiza, Zenyatta lotus) on either side of the low coffee table as the pair of small electric pots begin warming up.

“Zarya,” Genji begins.

Zenyatta nods.

“I don’t pretend to be as accomplished as you are in sensing others’ feelings, Master,” he says, plucking at the sleeve of his yukata, “but I could tell with even my minimal skills that the sight of us disturbed her.”

Zenyatta hums, somehow disheartened to hear Genji give voice to what they already know.  “Yes, that is certain.”

Genji crosses his arms.  “She is prejudiced against omnics?”

“I have no doubt -- Winston recruited her from the Russian Defense Force, after all.”

The electric pots begin babbling in protest of the heat of their contents; Genji rises to his feet and pours hot water into one teacup, and the modestly priced omnic oil he keeps for Zenyatta in the other.  “You spoke of her, earlier,” Genji says.  He hands the teacup brimming with hot oil on a saucer to Zenyatta.  “But you did not mention this.”

Zenyatta ducks their head as they accept the teacup.  “I did not want you to have any negative preconceptions before you met her,” they admit.

“Huh,” Genji says as he opens the mini fridge in search of milk and honey.  “Obviously that did not stop her.”

“Genji,” Zenyatta scolds, but there is no heat to it.  In the black depths of the oil, Zenyatta observes their reflection, a dark blot obscured by the luminous marks shining on their forehead.

“Forgive me, Master,” Genji says, dry and unrepentant, rejoining Zenyatta at the table when his tea has been prepared to his satisfaction.  “But I find it difficult to sympathize with someone who begrudges you the nature of your existence.”

“And _that_ is why I did not tell you, Genji,” Zenyatta says.  “She _knew_ you.  How would that make her feel, if someone she looked up to as a child were to treat her with hostility before knowing anything about her?”

“I would have been polite,” Genji grumbles, bobbing his tea bag in his tea.

“And pass up an opportunity to defend my honor?” Zenyatta challenges gently.  “Unlikely.”

Genji picks up his teacup, then places it back down in its saucer.  He runs his thumb along the rim in thought.  At length, he removes his visor and fixes Zenyatta with his golden gaze. “What did you sense in her, Master?”

Zenyatta lifts the teacup to their mouth.  Its scent, while perhaps unappetizing to a human, fills Zenyatta with anticipation of its sweetness.  They drink.  The warm oil courses through them, heating their core from within.  “This is lovely, Genji.  Thank you.”

“ _Master,”_ Genji insists, taking a sip from his tea in exasperation.

Zenyatta sighs, relenting.  “I sensed… a desire for power, and the mental and physical strength one might expect in a person who has dedicated her whole life to its pursuit.”

Genji’s posture and expression tell Zenyatta that this is about what he expected.  When he opens his mouth (doubtless to say so), Zenyatta lifts a staying hand.

“But deeper even than this,” Zenyatta continues, “I sensed a desire to protect those around her, and deeper still -- a deeply rooted fear that she might fail to do so.”

Genji’s face softens.  He cradles his teacup in his hand, as if unwilling to relinquish its warmth.  “And her… hostility toward you?”

“Every country in the world was devastated by the First Omnic Crisis,” Zenyatta says.  “Zarya’s must have been no exception.”

“But that is not your _fault!”_

“Genji, please understand.  You grew up with omnics, and Japan is very progressive in terms of omnic rights.  As it stands," Zenyatta says, “Russia has not implemented any legislation regarding omnic rights since the end of the first Crisis.”

Genji lets out a groan of frustration.  “Why _not_?  We are past the point of inane rubrics such as the Turing test.  Surely no one is still debating omnics’ capacity for sentience?”

“No credible _ethicist_ in the field of roboethics, no.  But there is enmity toward omnics in every corner of the world, and people will go to many lengths to justify their prejudices.  You know this, Genji. As for the matter at hand -- Russia dealt with the First Omnic Crisis entirely on their own.  They made no requests for aid, and alone they drove the omnic threat back to the omniums from which they had come, rendering them inoperable.”

“I suppose they had mechs,” Genji murmurs thoughtfully, fiddling with the string of his teabag.

“The Svyatogor,” Zenyatta confirms, “Russia’s answer to the Korean MEKA.  It was successful enough that the omnics attempted to take over Volskaya Industries’ main factory.  And they had control over it long enough to modify Volskaya’s tech to make omnics, Bastions and Titans -- but the Russian Defense Force prevailed regardless.”

Genji appears thoughtful.  “But there are no omnics in Russia.”

The explanation for that is all too clear to the both of them.

“I believe some of the omnics at the monastery hailed from Russia,” Zenyatta says, a consolation, “but there’s no accounting for the rest of them." The implication is an uncomfortable one. Neither wants to consider that omnics, newly freed of a a hivemind AI, were subject to wholesale slaughter out of fear and ignorance.  "Perhaps they fled,” Zenyatta offers generously.

They share a moment of respectful silence.

“... Overwatch,” Genji says at length.  “When the war ended everywhere else in the world, our wish for peace was only shared by the countries we helped protect.”

“If events in Australia are an indicator,” Zenyatta says, “then even those countries may not have shared that wish -- merely abided by it.”

“And Russia was under no such obligation,” Genji finishes.

They nurse their drinks in thoughtful silence.

Genji seems to come to a realization.  “Master, you mentioned experiencing a feeling you were uncertain of.  I imagine you must have mentioned Zarya because she is the source of it.  Am I wrong?”

Zenyatta sets down their empty teacup.  “No, you are correct, Genji.  Astute as always.”

Genji rotates his teacup idly with one hand.  “Could you describe the feeling?”

Zenyatta reaches deep inside, attempting to isolate and thereby articulate their emotions.

_The firelight glow of Mondatta’s chest, shaking with laughter, silenced in consideration for the omnics sleeping around them -- the sound for Zenyatta’s ears alone --_

_Cheeks dimpled with laughter, Zarya follows Reinhardt into the room.  Her skin and eyes are shining, chest heaving with exertion -- and for a moment she meets Zenyatta’s eyes and hasn’t yet processed the sight of them, and for a moment that smile is for Zenyatta --_

“Her desire to protect others reminds me of Mondatta,” Zenyatta realizes, and even they are surprised to hear themselves say it.  On the surface, the comparison is laughable -- Genji recoils when Zenyatta voices the thought.

But Zenyatta knows it to be true.

“That would not be… my first comparison,” Genji says carefully.

Zenyatta appreciates Genji’s tact when discussing Mondatta, but that wound has healed.  Zenyatta has grieved, and they will always miss Mondatta dearly -- but they have resolved to move forward.

That is why Zenyatta is here now, with Genji and the others.

“Speak freely, Genji,” Zenyatta says.  “I understand you are treating my feelings with care, but there is no need to censor yourself.”

Genji fiddles with his mask.  It is clear he wants to replace it, but is putting it off for the moment.  Perhaps he wants Zenyatta to see his earnestness.  If so, it is a touching gesture.  “Master… my thoughts are of no consequence, here,” Genji says.  “The matter at hand _is_ your feelings.  Do you feel for Zarya as you felt -- as you feel -- for Mondatta?”

Zenyatta thinks, _surely not,_ but cannot bring themselves to voice it.  “I cannot say,” they say instead, “but I… would like to come to know her better. To befriend her, perhaps -- if there is a way for me to earn her trust.”

Genji is quite plainly trying not to snort.  Zenyatta appreciates the effort, at least.  “I would think that _you_ would be the one whose trust needed earning, Master -- if merely existing in her presence is enough to earn her hostility, there is no telling what she might do if provoked.”

“Zarya is no brute,” Zenyatta insists, though they privately admit their conviction is informed solely by the glimpse they caught of Zarya’s soul, the moment before her eyes hardened and concealed it from view.  “And the difference, Genji, is that I may _choose_ whether or not I trust her.  But for Zarya, it is possible it is not a choice.  When would she ever have been given cause to trust an omnic?”

Genji frowns into his tea dregs.  “I do not like this,” he says.  “You have nothing to prove, Master.”

“I have already proven myself to you, my student,” Zenyatta points out.

“That is different.  I _asked_ for your help.  Zarya behaves as if she does not even want you -- _us_ \-- to be here.”

Zenyatta considers this.  It is true enough that Zarya's response to Zenyatta's presence so far has been overwhelming negative.  And if her discomfort with omnics is a result of deeply entrenched cultural values, as Zenyatta suspects, then imposing their presence on the woman unwillingly will only serve to agitate her and make her feel threatened.

“Then perhaps we should give her some space.”

Genji falters.  “I thought you wanted to befriend her?”

“I do,” Zenyatta concedes, “however, the depth and intensity of her hostility is something she will have to confront on her own terms.”

“...  So you want to steer clear of her,” Genji says.

“Not to the point of avoidance, no -- but I do not intend to haunt and harass her in pursuit of her company, either.”

Genji hums.  “Very well.  If this is your wish, then I support your decision.”

The lavender incense has burned down to the quick.  Genji replaces his mask, and he gathers up the teacups and saucers to bring to the kitchen later.

“The day is still young,” Genji remarks.  “Would you like to spend the morning reading, Master?”

Zenyatta ducks their head.  “I would like that very much.”

Looking for a change of scenery, they venture out of the watchpoint to a cliffside half-shaded by a copse of trees, with just enough space left between them to provide an incomparable view of the sunrise.  The smell of sap and pine needles and clean, cool wind fills Zenyatta’s awareness.  They know Genji must smell it too, despite the mask, because he takes a deep breath as if he is relishing the scent.

They sit in companionable silence (excluding the moments wherein Zenyatta shares with Genji a particularly poignant koan, or Genji recites a remarkably succinct passage for Zenyatta to hear), and the sun shines down on them as it rises further into the sky, warming their metal flesh with its glow.


	7. Peace and Quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zarya's pride imposes her to accept an unexpected challenge.

Zarya and Reinhardt are preparing a post-workout breakfast and arguing about the finer points of Russian versus German cuisine when Torbjorn wanders into the kitchen.  He looks exhausted, and when he and Reinhardt are done exchanging barbs Torbjorn tells Zarya to meet him at his workshop at noon.

Her weapon is ready.

With renewed vigor Zarya invites Reinhardt to run around the compound with her, and he obliges her for a full circuit before he declares that he’s not as young as he used to be and wishes her well.

Zarya is digging through her knapsack for a bottle of water when the doors to the compound slam shut.  With a grin, she thinks Reinhardt must have reconsidered and returned to join her.  But as she straightens to greet the man, she realizes that it is not, in fact, Reinhardt.

Metal-encased legs step with utmost conservation of movement, toward – not her, judging by the way those keen eyes look determinedly past her, but she thinks she must be in the man’s path at the very least.

Zarya straightens her back.

“Good morning,” she says with a toothy grin.  “I do not believe we have met.”

The man looks at her finally, but his intense expression does not change, and he does not change his step.  She gets the feeling he is looking straight through her.  Dismissing her.

When he finally reaches her, he stops a little too close, as if he had been expecting her to step out of his way and was unprepared to stop.

Zarya raises an eyebrow, and her smile takes on a sharp edge.

The man blinks.  He looks the type to conceal his emotions, so Zarya takes great pride in the traces of incomprehension she can see there.  His brow furrows.

Zarya’s eyelids fall and both her eyebrows lift up, her face a succinct ‘well?’  Privately, she thinks he is taking an inordinately long time to recover, even if he is a very arrogant man.

One would think that no one had ever had the audacity to stand in his path.

His eyes seem to be assessing her now, instead of passing her over.

 _Good_ , Zarya thinks.

“… Good morning,” he says slowly.  And just as slowly he steps around her, watching her for a moment but doing nothing as humiliating as craning his neck to watch her as he walks by.  It is simply a moment of measuring eye contact, then his eyes return to that intense middle-distance stare as he proceeds to wherever he was going before he had noticed her.

Zarya watches him go, thrumming with self-satisfaction.

Then her brow furrows.  The man is walking straight toward the sheer cliffs that surround the compound on nearly all sides.  So where on Earth is he going?

Zarya soon realizes that the sheer cliff is, in fact, the man’s destination.

She drops her water bottle in alarm as the man starts scaling the rock.  “You—“she begins, then raises her voice when she realizes it has dropped in disbelief.  “It is dangerous to go climbing alone!”   _What if he falls?_  Zarya thinks, her stomach pitching with anxiety.  She could certainly support his weight if she caught him, but with the speed of his ascent, a fall such as that would soon become perilous.

The man pulls himself to a stand on a _very_ thin outcropping of rock.  He seizes the base of a sapling that has braved the rigors of the mountainside to grow out of a crevice in the rock, looking ( _foolish,_ Zarya thinks) like a character on the cover of a mountain tour guide magazine.  Zarya notes that he is, at least, maintaining three points of contact.

The observation does little to calm her.

“If you are concerned,” the man calls down, “then you may join me.”

Zarya jogs up to the cliff side and inspects the rock dubiously.   _I cannot follow him,_ she realizes.

It has been a long time since Zarya has doubted her physical capabilities, to the point that when the realization comes it feels like being doused in cold water.  It is unlike her to admit she is incapable of doing something.

Therefore she rejects the possibility of failure out of hand, out of habit.

 _He must have gotten up there somehow,_ Zarya reasons, newly determined.  She places her calloused hand upon the rock and touches its grooves and ridges, and finds – yes, there are footholds here.  She looks up at the man again, measuring.  His legs (if they are in fact legs, and not prostheses) are leaner than hers, but his hands appear about the same size as hers.

She is certainly heavier than him (barring the possibility, again, of heavy prosthetic legs), but that is the only potential physical limitation.

(Zarya _does_ mentally mourn for her painted nails, but she does not want to give the man the potential satisfaction of seeing her doing so, so she clenches her fists rather than looking at them while they are still pristine and glossy.)

It occurs momentarily to Zarya that Overwatch’s ranks are filled with extraordinary humans, and perhaps one of this man’s extraordinary abilities is climbing sheer rock faces.

Then she retrieves her knapsack and rejoins him at the bottom of the cliff.  She is surprised to find him still waiting for her.

“Then I am with you,” she says, resolute.

The man raises an eyebrow, but he turns back toward the cliff and continues climbing.  Zarya is sure to make mental note of where the more difficult-to-spot handholds are as he takes them, but he soon becomes too high up for her to tell what he is grabbing.  She should focus on her own climb.

Upon closer inspection, the wall _does_ have a slight incline that will accommodate her weight.  Zarya has climbed before, but this is…

She shakes her head to absolve it of doubt.

She begins climbing.

Considering her lifting records, it is no challenge for Zarya to lift her own body – but some of the handholds have her straining infrequently-used muscle groups to reach them, and still others are so small that she has to support almost all her weight with just her fingertips, albeit for only a few moments.

The end result of her efforts is that by the time she reaches the large rock landing upon which the man has decided to wait for her, she is too tired to even mask the heaviness of her breaths as her pride demands that she do.

She lays down on the sun-warmed rock.  Her view of the sky is framed by the trees that are beginning to find footholds of their own in the mountainside.

“I have no idea how you did that,” Zarya concedes.  She has been bested by the man and his robot chicken legs.

“I have trained my whole life to be able to accomplish such feats with ease.”

Zarya glances over at him.  His posture as he sits leaning against the mountainside is relaxed – almost deliberately aloof, she thinks – but his tone does not seem mocking.  Even the content of his words, she is having trouble finding fault in.

His gaze is measuring again, but she is too tired to wonder at its meaning.

Zarya sits up and braces herself on her hands.  Looks out over the height she has scaled—

“I would not recommend—“

The roof of the watchpoint is not far below them, but considering the height of the watchpoint itself—

Zarya edges away from the ledge until her back touches solid rock.

The man beside her laughs, and she looks at him sharply, but his expression is easy.  Zarya tentatively quells the fire in her chest that insists she defend her pride.

“I did not expect you to actually join me,” the man admits.  “But I am impressed you made the climb.”

“Well,” she huffs, the conversation taking her mind off the inconceivable height, “To my occasional detriment, I find it difficult to leave a challenge unanswered.”

“You have a strong sense of pride.”

Zarya snorts.  It almost turns into a laugh.  “Says the man who waits for others to jump out of his path wherever he goes.”

At this the man stiffens.  “I… apologize for my rude behavior,” he says.  “I, too, have a strong sense of pride.  I am unaccustomed to having it challenged.”

“I can tell,” Zarya says with a grin, but the man does not seem assuaged by the lightness of her tone.  She sighs and stands, brushing her shorts off.  “It is in the past.  Just do not expect me to step out of your path again,” -- at this, she flexes demonstratively -- “for I am as steadfast as the mountain!”

The man barks out a laugh as if it takes him by surprise.  He stands as well, shaking his head.  “You remind me of…”

When it seems he won’t finish the statement, Zarya supplies, “Reinhardt?”

The man smiles thinly, and though there is a reservedness to it, he says, “Yes.”  He turns to the cliff that they have yet to scale.  “The climb becomes less strenuous from this point onward.  If you are still interested in climbing.”

Zarya has more doubt that she will be able to get down on her own than she does of climbing the rest of the way to the top of the cliff.  “Do you have any water?” she asks.

“No, my apologies, I --”

Zarya is holding a water bottle out to the man.  “It is important to hydrate when engaging in strenuous physical activity.”

The man accepts it graciously.  He drinks from it, then wrangles the fabric around his waist into a tie to hold the bottle.  “Thank you,” he says.  There is his measuring look again, but Zarya is beginning not to feel so exposed beneath it.  “I am Hanzo Shimada.”

Shimada bows at the same time as Zarya proffers a hand to shake.  Sheepish, Zarya retracts her hand and Shimada straightens.

“Aleksandra Zaryanova.”

Shimada nods.  “I recognize your voice.  Do you prefer Zarya, or is that simply your callsign?”

“Zarya is fine.  Is ‘Shimada’ all right with you?”

“Yes,” he says, “my brother is overly familiar with everyone he meets, so I doubt anyone calls him by the same -- that is to say, there should be no confusion.”

 _Genji Shimada,_ Zarya realizes belatedly _._  Zarya gets the sense that there’s too much going on there for her remark on it tactfully, so she leaves it alone.  “I see.”

“Do you know him?” Apparently Shimada is content to remain on the subject, though he does begin climbing.

Zarya is unsure if she can multitask quite so readily, but she isn’t about to climb back down.  Boldly, she begins climbing beside him, rather than using the same hand- and footholds behind him.  “I knew _of_ him,” she says.  “And I’ve…” she pauses, searching for a place to grab for.  Then she sees it -- there, just out of reach.   Zarya stretches and manages to hold on with a grunt.  “I’ve encountered him once since I arrived.”

Shimada hums, and that seems to be the end of it.

After a certain point the incline on the mountain becomes more manageable, and conversation comes more easily.  “Are you going anywhere in particular?” Zarya asks.

“No.” Shimada makes a frankly outrageous jump and lands on a jutting rock half his height.  “I only came out with the intent to clear my head in the quiet of the outdoors.”

Zarya did not realize she had been interrupting a private moment.  “I suppose we have gone too far for me to excuse myself,” Zarya quips to conceal her embarrassment.  She scales the rock at her much more sedate pace.

Shimada’s lip twitches as he pulls his water bottle free to drink from it.  “I am too much with my own thoughts of late -- perhaps it is for the best that you came.  I have been childish to hide myself away.”

Zarya considers how much time of her own she’s spent hiding away since she got here.

“It is not a crime to want to be alone,” Zarya says.  She reclines on the rock and drinks the rest of her water.

“No.  Only if one desires to go climbing.”

Zarya looks up at Shimada to see him concealing his grin with another draught of water.  Were he a member of her squad, she would take the taunt as an invitation to strike his leg and fight him to the ground.

Zarya flicks a pebble at him.  Shimada darts out of the way like a skittish bird.  

This time when she stands, Shimada looks uncertain.  “Did you want to go back?”

Zarya looks up through the trees to see the sun.  It’s not even close to noon.  “I’ll find the walking trail in an hour.”

Shimada nods, satisfied.  “That is just as well.  There is an outcropping with a pleasant view nearby, if you would like to take a break.”

Zarya’s immediate reaction is to refuse, but apart from their tense initial meeting Shimada has done well not to agitate her ego.  Also, the unfurling ache in her muscles is beginning to make her regret her impulsive decision to climb a mountain in response to a perceived personal slight.

“Lead on,” she invites.

As they proceed, the ground becomes more level and the tree cover becomes more plentiful.  The brisk wind that splits between the trees at this height and the heavy scent of pine reminds her of home.

As the trees grow sparse again, and the view of which Shimada had spoken become visible in glimpses through the trunks, Zarya’s ears prick with a strange sound.  It is like the humming buzz of wasps or bees, erratic and organic.

Shimada slides down an incline smoothed by soil, and Zarya follows without a second thought.

“...   _I wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high o'er vales and hills, when all at once I saw a crowd, a host, of golden daffodils_ \--”

This is the second time, Zarya thinks, that she has followed someone straight into an unpleasant encounter with the omnic.

Genji and the omnic are sitting on a grassy ledge surrounded by trees and rocks, the sun shining and glittering off their metal frames from where it peeks into the half-shadowed alcove.

Bizarrely, they both have physical books open in their laps.  The omnic is reading aloud, and Genji is leaning forward with rapt attention.

That is, until Zarya and Shimada drop in to shatter the strange scene.

“ _Beside the lake, beneath the trees, fluttering and dancing in the breeze_ …  Oh!  Good morning, Hanzo.  Zarya.  Are you having a pleasant day?”

Genji jolts from his attentive pose and stands in a flash of green that obscures all the in-between movements.  “Brother!”

Shimada’s muscles become rigid so readily that Zarya wonders how he manages not to sprain something in the process.

Pine needles flutter by in a mountain breeze, careless of the stifling tension that grows in the recently calm clearing.

Shimada glances between them all.  His expression is unreadable to Zarya, so she isn’t expecting it when he jumps up, into a tree branch, and darts away into the foliage.

 _If he can jump like that, why would he ever bother climbing anywhere?_ Zarya thinks, her mouth hanging open in awe.

“Master…”

Zarya turns back to the strange pair, and with dread rising in her like smoke she realizes she is now alone with them.

Genji is poised to take action, but he is hesitating for some reason.  He glances between Zenyatta and the treeline through which his brother disappeared.

“It is fine, Genji,” the omnic says in answer to some unvoiced question.  Or perhaps Zarya simply didn’t hear it.  “Go to him, if you believe that is the proper course.”

Genji clenches a fist, then nods and vanishes just as quickly as the other Shimada had.

Zarya watches his silhouette vanish into the treeline.

She has no idea how Shimada can possibly jump that high with his chicken legs.

But no amount of musing on the dissonance between Hanzo Shimada’s stature and his capabilities can distract her from her current predicament.

Zarya is alone with the omnic.  They are not deep in the mountains, but they are at least an hour’s hike from the watchpoint.  A shadow passes between her and the sun, and that seems to be all her body is waiting for, because the instant the sun’s warmth is no longer on her, her blood freezes in her veins.

Her back has been to the omnic for too long.  Ordinarily she would not be so careless with her safety, and she cannot even explain the lapse to herself; for some reason her body will not listen to her commands.

A vision of the nightmare flashes before her eyes, and that is what makes her turn around at last: the omnic is something physical, and if called upon Zarya can defend herself from it.

But from the nightmares there is no defending.

The omnic is exactly where it was the last time she looked, book spread open in its lap.  Genji’s book is lying in the grass, forgotten as he left in pursuit of his brother.

Zarya tries not to resent Shimada for leaving her and instead funnels all her resentment toward the omnic sitting, maddeningly placid, before her.

“How are you, Zarya?”

The question makes her head spin.  “I was better a moment ago,” she says, disorientation making her honest.   _I don’t know how to get back to the watchpoint from here,_ Zarya realizes, and the realization crashes into her like a freight train.  Her only recourse is _asking the omnic_ to guide her back, or for directions at the very least.

Zarya momentarily considers trekking back the way she had come and contending with the downhill climb -- jumping the rest of the way, if it comes to that.

“I see,” the omnic says.  Though omnics in general are always eerily motionless, Zarya gets the sense that it is deliberately not moving from its seated position in an attempt to put her at ease.

This only unnerves her further.

"You may have the others fooled," Zarya says, "but I know what you are."

The omnic hums, an infuriating dismissal.  "And what am I, I wonder?"

"A drone," she hisses. "A heartless machine.  And when you show your hand I will be ready for you."

"And me without my deck of cards," the omnic murmurs mournfully.

Zarya has no patience for the machine's games.  She turns on her heel and begins marching in the approximate direction of the watchpoint.

"Do you require a guide?" the omnic asks.  Were Zarya to ascribe emotions to the omnic -- which she has so far resolutely refused to do -- she might say that it sounded thrown by her abrupt departure.   _Good,_ she thinks.   _Let the omnic be the one floundering for once._

"I do not require anything from the likes of _you,_ " Zarya grits out.  It uncurls from its seated position and closes its book.

Zarya quickens her step.

"While I respect your desire to be alone," the omnic says paradoxically as it follows her, "I am afraid I must insist on the expediency of a collaborative effort--"

 _I’ll show you my fist expediently entering your mouth_ , Zarya thinks.  “I do not need your help, omnic _._ ”  Eager to leave the omnic behind, Zarya braces her hands on a fallen tree and throws her weight over the trunk.

“Of course,” the omnic allows, and from the corner of her eye Zarya sees it hop like an astronaut in zero-gravity over the tree trunk, "but if you were to become lost--"

Zarya whirls, ready to tell the omnic that it can go get  _itself_ lost and leave her alone.

Her foot catches in a crag in the road mid-turn, and a sharp pain sings straight through her ankle as she shouts and pitches forward and collapses into --

Into the omnic's arms.

Its appendages are disconcertingly warmed by the sun, rather than the frigid metal she has come to expect.  Zarya has never felt the likes of it.

It makes her ill.

"Get  _off of me,"_ she roars, shoving with all her might until the omnic drops her in the dirt.

Zarya hisses at the sting of the earth, but that is a minor inconvenience.  When the full intensity of the pain hits, she gasps like she's drowning.  She laughs deliriously; tests the movement of her ankle and winces.  Damn fool that she is, she twisted her ankle on a dirt path after scaling a mountainside.  The misshapen movement had placed her entire weight onto the joint.

She can't move it without pain.

She doesn't think she can stand.

"You require healing," the omnic says, still speaking for some reason.  "Let me--"

"I do not require anything from you," Zarya growls, a feral animal in a trap.  "If you touch me, I will crush you in my hands before you have a chance to regret your mistake."

At this the omnic is finally silent, though it is still far too close for comfort.  "...  I will contact Dr. Zeigler," it says.  It steps away from her and presses its fingertips to the juncture of its jaw and the mass of wires and cables that form its neck.  It begins speaking into the comms, which Zarya can hear echoing tinnily in her ear.

A tirade begins in Zarya's head.  She shouldn't have gone climbing without knowing where they were going.  She shouldn't have left the watchpoint without something to defend herself.  She shouldn't have let Shimada leave her alone with the omnic.  She shouldn't have gotten so distracted by her fear and anger that she twisted her ankle like a fool who had never stepped off a beaten path.

Zarya realizes that she will not be able to fire her weapon at the range today in her current state, and her heart sinks.

She looks up at the sky.

It is still not quite noon, but Zarya feels like an impossibly wide gulf has opened between her and the things she wants.

And amid the silent self-deprecation, Zarya still finds time to spare a bitter thought or two for the damn omnic, who as far as she is concerned shares the blame in this.

"They are on their way," the omnic says, wisely quiet.

"Who?" she demands.

"Reinhardt and Dr. Zeigler."

Zarya makes herself as comfortable as she can on the ground.  She is humiliated, but the only feeling stronger than that is the complicated knot of negativity she is harboring for the omnic.

They sit on opposite sides of the dirt road, Zarya determinedly avoiding its eyes and its own gaze inscrutable.

The agents at the watchpoint cannot come soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Zenyatta is reading is "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud" by William Wordsworth.
> 
> This chapter is a little longer than the others, and I foresee that being a trend as the story gets a little more complicated. Thanks for bearing with me! c':
> 
> Come swing by my Overwatch sideblog for updates on the fic and sundry other fandom content! I'm at orbofdiscourse. I have a countdown timer on my sidebar for how long it is until the next chapter, and the chapter title, if that sweetens the pot for anyone. 8)


	8. Tinnitus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old habits die gruesome deaths.

A gentle breeze lifts dirt and dust into the air to skitter across Zarya’s skinned knees.

Sunlight shines relentlessly down on the path, baking the air and the silence until it is a dry, tasteless thing.

Zarya regrets not bringing more water.

The omnic sits cross-legged, thumbs and index fingers joined as if in meditation.  Its books are sitting in its lap.

It appears to be ignoring her -- but of course, there is no way for her to know whether or not that is truly the case.  Omnics don’t exactly close their eyes, and this one’s shadowed slits bore into her, make her skin crawl with the uncertainty of whether or not it is observing her.

Waiting for her to let her guard down.

For an opportunity to strike.

Zarya thought she was anxious when she encountered the omnic in mixed company -- but forced as she is now to sit a stone’s throw away from the thing, alone, Zarya is realizing that she has not even _begun_ to know anxiety in the omnic’s presence.

And the pain in her ankle, concerningly slow to subside, is making her irritable.

But Zarya is resolute.  She can watch the omnic long enough for their comrades to arrive, she is sure.  This is no different than guard duty on the Siberian front, her muscles poised for action, squinting through a night vision scope into the snow until sunrise.

Only this time, she must stare at her enemy and do nothing, despite every instinct within her screaming to the contrary.

Zarya’s hands itch for a weapon.  Seeing the omnic so close, she can feel a phantom trigger against the pad of her right index finger.  Her hand twitches at the dissonance of feeling such a thing, unequipped to answer the muscle memory with action.

When Zarya used to be assigned guard duty, she would watch the horizon vigilantly, hidden by her vantage point, ready to open fire at a moment’s notice.  And when she saw it (a flash of that telltale triangle of glowing lights, of metal glinting in the moonlight), every muscle in her body wound up tight, and her stomach clenched with terror (because if they so much as saw you, if you hesitated for even a _second_ , their superior capabilities would have you in their sights and shot dead and that’s all) -- it was only with the forced exhale, the squeeze of her trigger finger, the discharge of the weapon, that her body began to unwind.

Zarya sometimes imagined that she funneled all her body’s tension into the bullet, striking down the omnic with a payload of its just desserts.

Perhaps this indulgent fantasy in trying times shall now be her downfall: given neither recourse nor relief, the tension in her body simply rises exponentially as long as the omnic is in her sight.

It is not a predicament Zarya ever expected to find herself in. Yet here she is, feeling less and less capable of movement as her body retaliates for her foolish choices by turning her to stone.

Zarya’s fists clench, and her chipped nails dig half-moons into her palms.

Her shoulders, which had been experiencing a satisfying ache from her climb, now cry out in agony as they twist into painful knots and gnarls.

Zarya’s eyes begin to water from staring so long.  She considers blinking, but -- she can’t.  She… won’t?

Her brow furrows.

Today, Zarya climbed a mountain on a whim, doubts be damned.

Yet she cannot _close her eyes?_

She attempts again, and is gratified to feel her eyelids responding to her commands -- but the moment the omnic is only a sliver in her vision her eyes fly wide open again in alarm.  Cold sweat prickles on her arms and back, despite the undeniable warmth of the day.

 _Do not turn your gaze from the scope,_ the memory of a drill instructor shouts in her mind.   _The moment you do is the moment you die._

Zarya’s blood calls mutinous cadence: _shoot, shoot, shoot -- shoot to kill!_

The omnic wavers in her swimming vision.  Bereft of detail, it resembles her nightmares far too closely for comfort.  Her spine seizes up at the sight alone, and it is alarmingly painful.  She wouldn’t have thought she could _become_ any more tense.

Zarya musters up all her self mastery and throws her arms into the air, dust stirring at the sudden movement.  “Why are you meditating?!” Zarya demands. The omnic tilts its head toward her.  It suddenly seems obvious that it was not paying her any mind a moment ago -- and now she has its undivided attention.

Managing to break free of her self imposed petrifaction takes her by surprise, so Zarya takes a moment to gather her bearings, catch her breath.  She drops her hands to her thighs.

Belatedly, she realizes she has invited the omnic to speak to her.

Zarya stifles a sigh.  If talking with the damn thing is what it takes to avoid going back to those miserable, frozen guard shifts in Siberia, she might as well make an attempt.

The sound of her throat clearing is strangely quiet after her outburst.  “Surely a machine can clear its mind by turning itself off, or... entering sleep mode.”

It is phrased more like an assertion than a question.  Zarya feels exposed enough -- she is not eager to complete her degradation by making herself conversationally vulnerable, too.

The omnic lifts its hands from its knees and folds them delicately atop the books in its lap.  The human-like posture appears as unnatural as Zarya might have expected on the omnic’s ungainly limbs and rigid joints -- yet despite how uncanny it is, it puts her at ease.

It is nothing like the rigid, brutal efficiency with which the omnics she fought in Siberia moved.

“Meditation,” the omnic says, “is not so much a purging of the mind, as it is a method of focusing it.  For a more apt comparison, one might liken it to living in the moment, or taking an opportunity to reflect upon one’s thoughts or emotions.”

Zarya slowly blinks.

“I have lost you,” the omnic realizes.

“At ‘purging’,” Zarya admits.  She rubs her eyes, and when again she looks the omnic’s shoulders are hunched and its head is ducked.  For a moment Zarya interprets this as a facsimile of fear, except the omnic has lifted one curled hand to its mouth, and the angle of its bowed head makes the segment between the rest of its face and its mouth look like… a smile?

“Perhaps you will permit me to make another attempt?”

Zarya thinks this is a strange way to ask, considering her injury holds her as captive audience to anything it might desire to say.  But there is little else about the request that Zarya finds objectionable, so she simply shrugs her shoulders in assent.

The omnic hums.  The vocalization’s tone drops toward the end, in the same way a human’s might when conveying thoughtfulness.  “Clearing the mind is impossible,” it finally says.  “Minds by their very nature are active, and we know this because even in sleep, the mind works tirelessly to compile our memories and organize them into dreams.”

Zarya notices that the omnic says ‘our’, and that begs the question: “You... _dream,”_ she says slowly, unable to leave the astonishing claim unchallenged.

“Oh yes,” the omnic says, clapping its palms together before its chest.  “Perhaps it is indulgent to do so, but I look forward to periods of rest for the simple pleasure of dreaming.  It is remarkable what the mind can create once it is liberated from conscious direction.  It is not unlike meditation, in that regard.”

Zarya leans back on her hands.

 _Omnics can dream,_ she thinks.  “And nightmares?”

The omnic tilts its head, lacing its fingers together.  “I beg your pardon?”

Zarya shifts on the ground, wincing as she accidentally jostles her ankle.  She inhales deeply and takes a moment to gather her thoughts, so as to avoid blurting out any more half-formed sentences.  “Do omnics have nightmares?”

“I can only speak for myself, but it is certainly possible -- considering nightmares stem from the same functionality as dreams.”

Zarya rolls her eyes.  That much she knows -- but are omnic and humans similar enough in _how_ they dream for such a deduction to come as self-evident, she wants to know.

“Zarya! Zenyatta!  There you are!”

Zarya startles, disturbing her ankle again and hissing in pain.

Reinhardt and Dr. Ziegler come into view from beyond a bend in the path farther down the hill.  Foolishly, perhaps, considering how much has gone wrong today, Reinhardt breaks into a run when he sees them.

“I am here to help,” he booms, crouching down to Zarya’s level.  His face is red, and he is breathing heavily.  He takes a moment to catch himself before he actually takes stock of Zarya.

Zarya can’t help feeling guilty for goading him into running with her earlier that morning.

Dr. Ziegler descends from a graceful arc of flight and joins them on the Earth, the wings of her Valkyrie suit glowing faintly.  She taps Reinhardt’s shoulder, and he makes room for her as she kneels.  “Oh, _du Arme --_ where does it hurt?”

The pair fuss over Zarya for a few minutes (her face nearly turns as pink as her hair beneath the undue attention) before Dr. Ziegler takes Zarya's pack and declares that any healing will have to be done back at the clinic.  Zarya is not in Caduceus’s database -- the rest of the explanation is lost to Zarya as Reinhardt takes it upon himself to lift the 120 kg woman into his arms.

(That, Zarya is sure, is the moment her face reaches the same intensity of hue as her hair.)

“Thank you for contacting us, Zenyatta,” Dr. Ziegler says. “Will you be returning with us?”

Zarya glances at the omnic.  It is standing with its arms folded loosely behind its back.  “It is no trouble.  And,” it says, tapping its chin with one of its books, “if you have no need of me, I think I will go seek out my student.”

Dr. Ziegler assures the omnic that they need no assistance, and the omnic cautions them to tread carefully on their descent.

“Zarya,” its voice says, a gentle intrusion to her thoughts.

Zarya jolts, not expecting to be addressed.  She meets the omnic’s eyes.

Its torso tilts forward slightly in a short bow.  “I hope that you make a speedy recovery.”

The desire to turn away from its mystifying well-wishes is a powerful one -- but that would mean burying her face in Reinhardt’s chest like a bashful child, and Zarya has suffered enough indignity for one day.

“... Thank you,” she murmurs ungracefully, but nobody chides her for disrespect, and she has no desire to say anything further.

With that, the three of them depart.  As Reinhardt rounds the bend from which Zarya had first seen him, she has an opportunity to see the place in the path where she and the omnic had been sitting for -- she doesn’t know how long.

The omnic is no longer there, of course.

The last of her dissatisfied tension ebbs away, leaving a strange and wavering fatigue in its wake.

Zarya hopes Dr. Ziegler has something a little stronger than painkillers in her clinic, but she is too mentally exhausted to ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is coming at you guys a day late! So I just wanted to thank you all so much for your patience!! c':
> 
> I announced this chapter would be delayed on my side blog, so if you were waiting for it to go up last night and were a disappointed, I encourage you to keep an eye on [orbofdiscourse](http://orbofdiscourse.tumblr.com/)! You can even just look in on [my tag for this fic](http://orbofdiscourse.tumblr.com/tagged/the-problem-of-other-minds-fic/) every once in a while, if you don't want to follow! c:
> 
> Thank you guys for sticking with me so far! I really appreciate the love and support you guys are sending my way. It's a real inspiration. c:
> 
> HMMM, HAS IT ALREADY BEEN TWO ZARYA CHAPTERS? DOES THAT MEAN WE'RE DUE FOR A ZENYATTA CHAPTER??
> 
> Honestly I'm playing this whole thing by ear, so -- I guess we'll find out together! c:


	9. In One Ear and Out the Other

Zenyatta senses that Genji is alone when they come upon their pupil near the watchpoint’s clearing.  Genji’s legs swing disconsolately from the branch upon which he sits.

“I would ask how it went,” Zenyatta says as they alight upon a nearby branch, “but your demeanor tells me that you may not want to discuss it.”

Genji sighs. “It is not that I don’t want to,” he begins.

“You owe me no explanation, Genji.”

Genji’s body language relaxes, taking comfort in his master’s assurance. “I know, master. It is just that… I _want_ to tell you, but I… need time to gather my thoughts.”

“Take all the time you need.”

There is a long moment of silence.  A breeze sweeps through the trees and sends deciduous leaves and pine needles tumbling through the branches.  The early afternoon sky is crisp and blue.

“Oh!” Genji turns to Zenyatta. “Master, I heard you on the comm link earlier.  Did something happen between you and Zaryanova?”

Steam puffs from Zenyatta’s shoulders as their body heats in embarrassment. “Ah. Well. There was... Hum.” Zenyatta presses a hand to their head, marveling at the heat emitting from it.

They had behaved shamefully, come to think.

“Master?” Genji prompts, growing more concerned by the moment.

Zenyatta sits down and hands Genji’s book back to him.

Genji falters. “Oh. Thank you.” He takes the book and holds it to his chest.

Waits.

Zenyatta sighs. “I fear befriending Zarya may be a fool’s errand.”

“I mean,” Genji says -- then changes directions, as if he realizes he is about to say something uncharitable. “What, ah... has caused you to change your mind?”

Zenyatta looks down at the book in their hands and flips idly through the pages of poetry. Pretty words that please them well enough, but which at this time provide none of the wisdom they truly need.

“Perhaps I need to gather my thoughts as well.”

Genji nods, and the pair sit in comfortable contemplation of their respective situations.

Zarya’s willingness to engage in conversation with Zenyatta should be encouraging.

The circumstances had not been ideal, but she expressed curiosity -- she had even learned something new about omnics.  Having received an opportunity to teach her something, willingly, is something that humbles Zenyatta.

Zenyatta’s most cherished recollection of the chance encounter is the thanks Zarya had offered, grudging and uncertain though it had been.

Zenyatta wants to look back on the memory with fondness.  On the surface, it is more progress than they had expected.

Yet the way a miasma of fear had fallen over Zarya the moment they were alone together spoke volumes: not of simple prejudice, but of memories of hardship not so easily erased by Zenyatta’s attempts to befriend the woman.

Zenyatta had been keenest to the sense of it twice: the first were the moment before Zarya’s outburst.  It had been growing stronger by the moment, until Zarya herself seemed so beleaguered by it that she felt compelled to cast it off physically by throwing her hands into the air.

The second instance had been when Zenyatta touched her.

(They had reacted on instinct when Zarya fell, would not have intervened but for the chance that the fall might have caused her further injury-- and in that moment Zenyatta had realized her eyes were not just brown, but had contained within them splintering fractals of emerald green.)

“I would like to discuss what happened,” Zenyatta finally says.

Genji turns to his master, attentive.

Zenyatta recounts the events of the afternoon to their pupil, and Genji listens with respectful silence, up to a point.  When Zenyatta reaches the part in the story where Zarya falls, Genji barks in laughter.

“Genji!” Zenyatta says, surprised at their student’s rudeness.

Well. If they are honest with themselves, it is not _particularly_ surprising. Genji may hold Zenyatta in high esteem and treat the omnic with utmost respect, but in many ways Genji is the same as he has ever been.

And it is a blessing that Genji is so carefree, enough to be as crass as he was in his younger years -- considering how long it took the young man to reach this point.

Zenyatta remembers a time when nothing would cheer Genji.

But even hard-won laughter such as this should not be made at the expense of someone else’s pain.

“Genji,” Zenyatta says again, gentler this time, “it is unkind to laugh at the pain of others.”

Genji quiets, though minute spasms of his shoulder betray his attempts to conceal his amusement. “I am sorry, master. Though you cannot deny the irony of it.”

Zenyatta hums. “Perhaps you can explain?” they ask lightly.

Genji allows the smile to creep back into his voice. “It is ironic because she was put in a position to rely on you, despite the fact that she does not trust you -- that, in point of fact, she _hates--_ ” Genji cuts himself off, and this time, his silence is accompanied by true sobriety. Steam bursts from his shoulders, and he hangs his head.  “I -- I’m sorry, master.  I childishly indulged my spiteful feelings, and I have hurt you as a result.” Zenyatta thinks Genji might bow, if he were not sitting on a tree branch. “Please accept my apology.”

“I accept, and it is forgiven.”

Genji still appears troubled.

Perhaps Zenyatta is being too harsh with him.

“Forgive me,” Genji says, to which Zenyatta nearly replies, amused and confused, "I already have," until Genji continues: “I have interrupted your retelling. You broke her fall, but she pushed you away?”

“Yes,” Zenyatta says, and they recount the rest of the transpired events, grateful for Genji’s patience and attention.

When they finish, Genji says, “She thanked you.” 

“As I said, it was a perfunctory sort of gratitude. But I like to think it is a positive development -- if only she were not so disturbed by my presence.” It can’t be helped, Zenyatta supposes. If Zarya has a fear of omnics, all that Zenyatta can do is go about their day and hope that this casual exposure is enough to eventually ameliorate the worst of it. But seeking Zarya out at this juncture would be selfish, knowing as they do now the intensity of her fear.

Genji does not reply for a long while, to the point that Zenyatta begins to think maybe he won’t respond at all.

They begin to wonder whether they ought to descend and rejoin the rest of the watchpoint’s occupants, given how the afternoon only grows later, when Genji finally gives voice to his ruminations.

“Master,” he says, “I can tell this is important to you. If you would like me to, I could…” Genji turns away, as if searching for words in the knolls of the tree. He turns again to Zenyatta. “I could attempt to befriend her.”

Zenyatta straightens. “Genji?”

“It is as you say,” Genji continues. “Zaryanova cannot endure your presence.  But she already holds me and Reinhardt, and some of the original Overwatch agents in high esteem. If I can befriend her -- perhaps she might reconsider her opinion of you, considering the esteem I hold _you_ in.”

Zenyatta hesitates. They can already foresee this going terribly, terribly wrong. “Genji…  I do not want you to cultivate a relationship under false pretenses.  You cannot inspire change in someone unless they sense that you truly care for them.”

At this Genji looks prepared to reconsider. “Will... cultivating that relationship not inspire such care?”

“Genji.”

“I will be respectful,” Genji promises, “and genuine in my overtures.”

Zenyatta is silent for a long moment. They can see it plain that Genji is doing this for Zenyatta. And there is earnestness there, but it, too, is for Zenyatta. “I appreciate your candor, my pupil; however I must insist that you wait until you are certain of your reasons. I would not want Zarya to think she had a good friend in you, only to realize that you had an ulterior motive. Surely you can imagine how upsetting such a betrayal might be to her.”

They sit within a tranquil silent moment. Zenyatta considers the position of the sun in the sky, and stands.

“Perhaps we should return,” they suggest.

Genji agrees.  They scale the cliffside by jumping onto outcroppings of rock and hanging branches and climbing vines.  As they approach the entrance, Genji stops in his tracks.

Zenyatta stops as well, waiting for their pupil.

“Master,” Genji says, “I want to pursue a friendship with Zarya. I think if there are feelings of hatred within her, this demonstrates a deficiency in her support network, which I am in a uniquely privileged position to occupy, due to her respect for my status as a veteran of Overwatch..”

Zenyatta finds this answer much more satisfactory than Genji’s initial suggestion. “In that case,” they say, “you do not need my blessing to do as you please.”

Genji seems to interpret this as a blessing in itself, with the way he straightens and bows and says, “Thank you, Master!”

Zenyatta sighs. “Mind your motives, my student. Consider meditating on this course of action -- after that, I trust that you will make the right decision."

Genji nods, trotting up to Zenyatta so they are in step once more. "Yes, master."


	10. The Walls Have Ears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the debacle on the mountain trail.

Zarya declines Angela’s offer to heal her sprained ankle with nanomachine technology.

Zarya isn’t ignorant -- she knows that’s how the woman accomplishes her miraculous, death-defying feats of medicine. Even when she watched holo-vids as a little girl of Dr. Ziegler rescuing victims of natural and human disasters, of the woman bringing her teammates back from impossible odds -- Zarya had known that’s how it was done.

(Though a handwave and a dismissive one-word explanation of “nanomachines” sounds very different to the ears of an awed child than it does to a grown woman who knows the implications therein.)

Perhaps if she had been asked when she had first arrived, Zarya would have accepted the treatment without hesitation.  But cold, gun-smooth digits claw at the corners of her composure, her fears and misgivings an open wound, and so today she refuses. Her patience for the company of machines that think for themselves has been exhausted.

She is a far cry from tolerating the presence of such machines _inside her_.

(But then, maybe she would not have been so receptive when she first arrived -- if she is basing her reluctance on her state of discomfiture, then those first few days of sleep deprivation and paranoia had been accompanied by the worst of it.)

Dr. Ziegler is understanding enough, and capable enough of treating her in the traditional way. She insists that Zarya relax in the medical bay with an ice pack on the injury for half an hour while making idle conversation, interspersed with giving Zarya instructions for further care.

“I’ll ask Winston to bring a mini-fridge from one of the unused break rooms and bring it to your dorm, so you can keep those ice packs on hand.”

“It is not as if I will be in my room all week,” Zarya protests weakly.

Dr. Ziegler takes away the ice pack and gently sets to wrapping Zarya’s ankle in a compression bandage. “I must insist, Aleksandra -- and really, it is no trouble,” she says.  Then she details the remainder of Zarya’s recovery plan -- ice, elevate, avoid strenuous physical activity,

These instructions are not unfamiliar to Zarya.  Enough of her acquaintances and she had became injured with sprains during her weightlifting career.  So she knows how to handle them.

Yet it has been a long time since Zarya has been given intuitive and unambiguous instructions for treating such an injury.  It feels strange and displacing to be told to take care of herself, when she has spent the past four years being told and telling others to "walk it off" or "put some snow on it".

Well.

There is no time for recovery on the front lines of the Second Omnic Crisis.

“Athena?” Dr. Ziegler says unexpectedly, and Zarya awakens from her thoughts with a start. “Has Torbjörn dragged himself out of bed yet?”

“Agent Torbjörn has recently requested that I not monitor his workplace or living space,” the robotic voice intones from above.

Zarya scowls down at her hands in her lap.

“Of course he did,” Dr. Ziegler sighs impatiently. The woman steps away from the bedside and pulls up a holographic interface that she begins typing on. “Can you tell him to check his messages?”

“You know he won’t do it if _I_ tell him, Dr. Ziegler,” Athena replies, and Zarya is struck by the complexity in the tone of the AI’s synthetic voice -- as if Dr. Ziegler and Athena are long-suffering colleagues having an old conversation, and between them sits an exasperated understanding.

Dr. Ziegler huffs. “You’re right, of course,” she concedes. The woman presses a final key and waves a hand, dismissing the technological illusion. She touches her earpiece. “Torbjörn, this is Mercy. Do you copy?”

Zarya hears Dr. Ziegler's voice echo through the comms. The vibration makes her ear ring, and Zarya winces. She switches the device to her opposite ear and tries to clear the sound out of the other with her smallest finger.

“Mercy!” a familiar voice responds. “Torbjörn here. Are ye ready--”

“I am afraid something has come up. Please check your messages for an explanation.”

Silence.

Zarya wiggles the toes of her injured side just to be sure that she can.

They are slow to respond, but they obey her dutifully.

Zarya has difficulty taking satisfaction in the accomplishment.

“Right,” Torbjörn says eventually, enthusiasm noticeably quenched. “I copy ye.”

“Over and out,” Mercy says, and cuts the feed before turning back to face Zarya. “I have informed Torbjörn that you will not be joining him at the range this evening.” At Zarya’s stricken expression, Dr. Ziegler stands firm: “You have no business carrying that enormous thing around on an injured ankle. Really, any sort of strenuous physical activity should be curtailed until you have done some physical therapy.”

“Curtailed?” Zarya says without thinking, and immediately flushes at her show of ignorance.

Realization passes across Dr. Ziegler’s face. “I apologize -- reduced, I mean. Avoided completely, really.”

Zarya curses inwardly. She could have used the doctor’s unclear wording to continue going to the gym with plausible deniability, if she hadn’t gone and asked what the word meant.

Pausing, Zarya forces herself to reexamine her knee-jerk response to Dr. Ziegler's instructions.  What was the point of disobeying them? Did Zarya really need to keep going to the gym despite her injury just to prove a point?

In the Russian Defense Force, it was perceived as weak to even go to the clinic for a physical injury, much less beg off work because of one -- doctor’s note or no.  Everyone was expected to conduct training and power through injuries.  At the time, it had galled Zarya to do something so contrary to everything she had ever learned in her weightlifting career.

Injuries require rest.  Zarya knows this. But the prevailing narrative in the Russian Defense Force was that you could rest when you were dead and if you couldn’t walk it off then you were dead _weight_.

Eventually Zarya understood the reason for the disconnect.  Bodybuilding and warfare may both be strenuous physical activities, but the purpose of the first is to achieve one’s own personal heights of physical strength.

The purpose of the second is to kill the enemy. And not die, if you can manage.

After four years of military service, Zarya had finally stopped being surprised or confused by the whole thing.  When her fellow soldiers insisted on exacerbating their injuries by pushing themselves beyond their limits, Zarya was right there along with them, showing off and carrying more supplies and weapons than she could manage, determined to move as much as possible, as quickly as possible.  The sooner they were loaded up, the sooner they could roll out and kill the enemy.

With the omnic threat looming, she hadn’t had time to be concerned about the negative effects the training was having on her body. And that is to say nothing of the combat.

Her joints still occasionally ache from the tireless, repetitive movements of marches through the snow -- from the strain of crushing omnics between her hands when ammunition had depleted, until the metal and silicone caved beneath the pressure of her unyielding strength.

The bitter cold had gone far in numbing her to the soreness in her body, and everything else faded into irrelevance in the face of her crusade of retribution. Her body moved without need of consciousness, single-mindedly following the last order it had received until the battle was over and a trail of shattered omnics marked her swath of destruction, the final adversary a mangled, unrecognizable thing in her shaking, blue-fingered hands.

“Do you have a preference for an alternative treatment?” Dr. Ziegler asks suddenly. The woman is sitting beside Zarya’s bed and using her holographic interface to take notes of some kind. Zarya could probably read them backwards if she were inclined to put forth the effort, but it would take too long to be worth it, seeing as it’s in English.

Or German? Zarya squints at the screen

While attempting to sate her idle curiosity about what language Dr. Ziegler writes notes in, she recognizes the expectant quality of the silence and recalls that the doctor has asked something of her. Feeling caught, her gaze darts up.

Dr. Ziegler’s mouth is quirked in an indulgent smile, and her blue eyes are shining gently.

“Ah... I beg your pardon?” she says.

Dr. Ziegler makes no cutting remarks about paying attention, soldier, or get your head out of the clouds for god’s sake -- she simply says, “There are two medics on the team who use methods of rapid healing that do not involve nanomachines. I can arrange for one or both of them to get in touch with you, if you would like.”

This is news to Zarya. “Who are they?”

“Have you met Lúcio?” Dr. Ziegler asks. Zarya shakes her head. “Well, he is one of them. He specializes in music therapy.”

Zarya tries not to be underwhelmed. “And the other…?”

“I believe you have already met him,” Dr. Ziegler says, a teasing note coming into her tone that tells Zarya she should probably be able to guess to whom Dr. Ziegler is referring.

Zarya mulls over it.  If Dr. Ziegler is talking about men, that would be Winston, Reinhardt, Torbjörn, the Shimada brothers… But Zarya cannot imagine which of them might be a part-time medic.  It's a bit of a stretch, but maybe one of the Shimadas?

“Zenyatta,” Dr. Ziegler says, “can manipulate the balance between positive and negative spiritual energies in a person's soul, which can have a healing effect when applied for such a purpose."

Zarya’s determinedly does not grimace. “Magic, then,” she says. Though she is attempting not to look like a child in front of the good doctor, Zarya cannot fully restrain her disdain and disbelief.

Thankfully, Dr. Ziegler only laughs. “Well, science often looks like magic. And there aren't many academics looking into the science of the soul these days, so we may never know quite how it's done. I certainly don't. But we wouldn't use it if it didn't work."

So Zarya's options are music therapy and soul magic.

A virtual stranger, or the omnic.

"... You said his name was Lúcio?"

* * *

Zarya makes her way back to her room, grudgingly using the crutches Dr. Ziegler insisted she take with her.

Ghostly drill sergeants haunt her limping steps with jeering degradation. Zarya grits her teeth and ignores their heckling, trying instead to focus on the good fortune she must have to encounter exactly no one between the clinic and her destination.

Aggressive optimism and cloying paranoia circle one another in this fashion for the entirety of the trek, filling her thoughts with useless, tiresome chatter.

Zarya barely knows where she's going, so distracting is this cyclical mental self-defeat. Zarya is grateful that she has finally begun to memorize the path to her room, if nothing else.

When she arrives there, she stands before the door and stares.

An envelope is affixed to her door with tape.

Zarya props her crutches up against the wall and leans on her good leg as she unwraps the envelope and examines its contents.

_'I am sorry to hear about your injury. I hope you feel better soon._

_\- Shimada'_

Disregarding for a moment that she has no idea whether Genji or Hanzo wrote this --

There are tea bags inside.

And they smell _sublime_.

Zarya enters her room and hangs up her bag, then sets about preparing a cup of tea with what she's pilfered from and forgotten to return to the kitchen over the past few days. She doesn't want to go all the way back to the kitchen to prepare it.

She can't imagine what her parents would say if they knew their daughter was making tea from hot tap water, but that's exactly what she does.

The heat dissipates the smell of the tea and gives off its heady, soothing fumes as it steeps.

Zarya retrieves one of the ice packs Dr. Ziegler had given her and settles down on the bed with her tablet. The tea sits gently steaming on the bedside table.

Almost an hour passes and Zarya finds that she cannot entertain herself with the tablet's diversions, but neither is she tired enough to simply go to bed.

She makes another cup of tea using water from the bathroom faucet.

As she is limping back to bed, bracing herself on furniture as she goes, Zarya wonders if omnics have to deal with these problems.

 _Apparently dreaming is not too tall an order for an omnic,_ she thinks wryly. _But can they experience insomnia, too?_

When she settles back in bed, Zarya finds that the thought will not leave her.

She doesn't know the answer.

 _I don't care,_ she insists. But it niggles at her anyway.

How is it possible that omnics dream? Can they fall unconscious unintentionally? _Do_ they have insomnia, or nightmares? She remembers now that she had asked the resident omnic when she was trapped on the mountain path with it.

Its answer had been inconclusive.

Come to think, even with what little she knows of the omnic, Zarya senses that this is strange.  Was the omnic not, mere moments earlier, going to great lengths to achieve understanding with Zarya? Had it not attempted to explain _twice,_ in increasingly simpler and more approachable terms, its thoughts on the process of meditation?

Yet when she asked if omnics have nightmares, it had begun speaking theoretically -- 'it is certainly possible, considering nightmares stem from the same functionality as dreams' -- as if it were not an omnic itself! Surely a yes or no would have sufficed, if the omnic itself did not suffer from nightmares, and that was the reason for its deflection.

Zarya sits up.

The omnic deflected the question because it suffers from nightmares and didn't want to discuss them.

Zarya drops back down onto her bed with a huff.  No, that's ridiculous.  She must be mistaken.

 _But it would make sense,_ a traitorous thought suggests.

"Omnics don't _make_ sense," Zarya grumbles.

And yet Torbjörn, for all that he hates omnics, will sometimes acknowledge that the _only_ tolerable thing about them is that they _do_ make sense. That their choices are logical.

(Torbjörn and Zarya will have to agree to disagree -- because Zarya is sure that if the omnic crunched the numbers, it would have no logical reason to be making overtures of friendship toward her.)

Zarya grabs her pillow and buries her face in it.

She didn’t even _want_ to talk to the damn omnic.  She should be glad that it withheld something after all.  That there is something it did _not_ want to tell her.

All the better for it to never speak to her.

After venting the worst of her disgruntled muttering into the pillow, Zarya resettles on her bed and picks up her tablet.

 _do omnics dream,_ she types.

The first result is about a novel titled ‘Do Omnics Dream of Electric Sheep?’, which almost makes Zarya throw the tablet across the room in disbelief and frustration.

What in the name of Mother Russia is she supposed to take from that?

Allowing herself one grand eyeroll, Zarya reads the synopsis.

It is apparently a transformative work based on a book that entered the public domain in 2063, titled, ‘Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?’.  Zarya reads some of the information provided about the original work. The reviews for both are positively glowing.

On a whim, she bookmarks the page.

She probably won’t return to it.

Determining that a different query will be needed to answer her question -- and that the first question was perhaps too unclear -- Zarya searches for, _do omnics sleep_?

The answer is a resounding ‘yes’ from most results, although when the message boards devolve into arguments about what constitutes sleep or unconsciousness (apparently they are distinct), the vocabulary gets too dense and specialized for Zarya to parse.

The complicated terminology in the article she decides to focus her efforts on means that every fourth word is one Zarya doesn’t know. She looks each one up on a dictionary website in a separate tab, but she barely even understands what she’s reading by the time she identifies all the words in a paragraph.

 _‘Synaptic connections’_ is the next English word she doesn’t quite understand, and she scoffs under her breath as she copies the term into the dictionary application.

“Synaptic connections,” a voice intones from above, “refer to the connections between the neurons, or nerve cells, in the brain.”

 _Athena,_ Zarya thinks, lowering her tablet to her side and staring up at the ceiling -- as if the AI lives in the crawlspace and Zarya can smoke her out by glaring.

“When someone is born, their brain contains all the neurons they will ever have.  But there are no connections between them. During the learning process, information is passed between the neurons. Consistent and repeated passage of information will lead to the formation of a permanent connection.

“Current research indicates that the purpose of sleep is to organize and solidify those connections made over the course of the day. It is speculated that dreams are sometimes a result of this organization.”

Then Athena falls silent.  And despite Zarya's refusal to place AI and machines on the same level as people, she nevertheless detects an expectant quality to the ensuing silence -- the very same as she had noticed when Dr. Ziegler had been waiting for her response earlier that day.

If Athena is waiting for Zarya to respond, the woman is at a loss for what to say. Is Athena attempting to make some sort of friendly overture toward her?  Or is this a functionality of her programming, like a game or computer program that will prompt you with hints when you make too many mistakes?

Is Athena... trying to break the ice? Start a conversation? Zarya dreads the thought -- heaven forbid the subject of the early days of their acquaintanceship comes up. Zarya very much does not want to be reminded of her humiliation in assuming Athena had been a person.

“I apologize for intruding,” Athena says when it is apparent Zarya will not speak. “However, I thought you might like to know that I can dictate written articles and websites and provide definitions in real time upon request.”

Zarya’s spine tingles uncomfortably.  “Were you watching me?” Zarya demands.

“All internet traffic requests are routed through network paths that I am responsible for keeping secure.  So I was monitoring your traffic, but I was not, strictly speaking, watching you," Athena explains. "The camera in your room is actually defunct."

Zarya whirls her head on her shoulders, but she cannot locate the surveillance device.

“It is embedded in the speaker,” Athena says, and when Zarya looks she sees that yes, a small little black bug-eye camera is built into the perforated speaker on the ceiling. “It is not a concern if you do not want video monitoring in your room; however, tampering with the speaker would constitute a safety violation, considering it is the only way for me to contact agents if wireless communications are disrupted.”

Zarya flops back on the bed. “Fine,” she says.  She doesn’t know what else to say.

“Would you like me to dictate the article you are currently reading?”

Zarya considers this.

She can’t sleep, and the one subject that has managed to seize her attention is up to its ears in more academic jargon than she can shake a rifle at.

 _Athena isn’t really an omnic, is she?_ Zarya thinks. Torbjörn had credited Winston with creating the artificial intelligence -- and Torbjörn isn’t shy about taking credit for things he _did_ do. Winston had even admitted omnic technology is not his area of expertise.

In Zarya’s mind, the principle of the matter is the same whether Athena is an omnic AI or an original one: machines that think for themselves are untrustworthy and unpredictable.

But Zarya can’t find fault with listening to the AI read her science articles about dreams.

 _Fine,_ Zarya almost says, but she hesitates. She remembers the disapproving, disappointed way Dr. Ziegler had spoken of Torbjörn. The way that Athena and Dr. Ziegler had spoken like old friends.

“I would… appreciate it.” Zarya says. She is surprised to find it doesn't grate as much as she thought it might, to express gratitude to the AI.  Certainly it does not feel as forced as the grudging 'thank you' she had offered the omnic on the mountain trail.

Athena must be different.

Athena reads the article aloud, supplying words as Zarya asks for them.

Then they move onto another article.

Zarya loses count after that, and she falls asleep with a word half-formed on her lips.


	11. Hyperacusis

Early morning finds Zarya freshly showered and relaxing in gym clothes in the kitchen, waiting for water to boil.  The watchpoint is silent save for the soft burbling of the kettle on the electric stove. Her crutches are propped up against the empty dining table as she leans against the counter.

Functionally, Zarya acknowledges that there is little difference between hot tap water and cold tap water heated up in a kettle, in regards to preparing tea -- yet she is beginning to feel like an unsociable barracks rat, carrying on as she has been. She needs an excuse to get out of her room.

Also, Zarya can tell that the tea from her mysterious benefactor is of high quality. It feels almost disrespectful to drink it so unceremoniously.

As Zarya is attempting to puzzle out for the thousandth time which Shimada brother must have left the gift on her door -- fruitlessly, she knows, for she is equally acquainted with them both and knows little of their taste in tea or colleagues -- her tablet chirps for her attention from the counter top.

Her heart skips a beat in alarm, but Zarya recovers quickly, shaking her head as she reaches for the device.  She really needs to change her message alert notification to something less abrupt.

Wondering who could possibly be sending work emails this early in the day, Zarya unlocks the screen. Her inbox has reading recommendations from Athena, which she has set aside for later -- and a message from Lúcio. He’s “elbows-deep” in some modifications to his healing rig at the moment, so he won’t be able to meet with her today -- how’s tomorrow?  Zarya taps out a quick response, but just as she goes to send it she blinks and sees that it’s in Russian.

Zarya scrubs a hand down her face and changes the keyboard to English.

By the time she sends it off, _yes, that’s fine, thank you for your time,_ the water has come to a boil. She turns off the heat and pulls out the folded envelope.  There are two teabags left.  She selects one, stows the envelope, and digs through the cupboards until she procures a chipped ceramic mug that looks like a souvenir from a time that the Grand Mesa catered to exclusively tourists, rather than covert pseudo-military ops.

As she pours water into the mug, the distinct scent of jasmine pervades her senses, eliciting a helplessly pleased sigh. It's been a while since she drank tea on a regular basis. Zarya enjoys coffee and tea both, but tea doesn't quite do the job of keeping one awake for 24 hour shifts.  As Zarya retrieves her mug and tablet and limps over to the table, she reflects that tea reminds her of a time before the Russian Defense Force. It reminds her of slow mornings spent watching the snow fall outside the windows of her childhood home.

Zarya felt as if her life has been gaining momentum ever since she began preparing to compete in the Olympics. The days of training blur together in her memory: interviews, untimely illnesses and injuries, filling out paperwork, signing contracts, having her height and weight taken -- the nerve-wracking night before the final competition --

Her life, a speeding electric train, had suddenly fallen off the rails and careened into a war zone.

Zarya wonders if joining Overwatch is her moment of respite.  She wonders if this is only temporary, and her life will soon outpace her ability to keep up with it yet again.

Zarya blows steam gently away from the lip of her mug, warming her hands on it.

As long as she is entertaining idle thoughts, Zarya wonders how her squad is doing. Will Petrova think she does not trust her leadership if she checks in so soon?  When will she have waited long enough that the wound of her leaving them is not so new?

(How long will it be until she has waited too long?)

Zarya considers her tablet.  Perhaps she will contact them today.

“You are up quite early.”

Zarya sets her mug down and turns to the voice.

Hanzo Shimada is standing in one of the entrances to the kitchen. He is wearing a simple Prussian blue hooded sweater and charcoal sweatpants.  With the way the pants vanish into the tops of his knees, Zarya supposes that solves the mystery of his disproportionately thin legs.

They are prostheses after all.

“As are you,” Zarya says with raised eyebrows and a half smile.

Shimada’s mouth twists, as if his face wants to communicate discomfort but he is unaccustomed to letting it communicate anything. “I do not wish to intrude,” he says. With the way his hair is tied in a loose and disheveled tail, and his top is rumpled from sleep, Zarya feels like _she_ is the one intruding.

“It is convenient, then, that you are not,” Zarya says primly, hiding her smile behind her mug. Miraculously, this succeeds in causing his stiff posture to unravel, and after that he needs no further encouragement to take his liberties with the kitchen and its amenities.

Zarya watches as Shimada makes preparations of his own, selecting a mug and procuring a familiar-looking tea bag from somewhere on his person.

Shimada falters in his search, as if something is not where he expected it to be.

“I left the kettle on the stove,” Zarya says. “It should still be hot.”

Zarya is gratified when she sees that she guessed correctly -- Shimada approaches the stove and depresses the lever to uncap the spout of the kettle. Steam sighs outward and upward in evidence of its heat.

“Twice now your unexpected presence has proven fortuitous,” Shimada says as he prepares a cup of tea of his own.

Zarya snorts. “You did not need my help climbing that mountain.”

“No,” Shimada acknowledges.  The quirk of his lip is shadowed by the kitchen’s dimness, broken only by the yellow light above the sink. “But perhaps your presence was beneficial in another way,” he says cryptically.

Zarya rolls her eyes, but a good-natured smile betrays her amusement.  “Do you always speak in riddles?”

“Should I speak frankly?” Shimada asks in honest question. He gestures toward the chair across from her, and Zarya pushes it out with her uninjured foot in answer. Shimada sits and swirls the tea bag in his cup.  His face contorts again.  “I... appreciated your company.”

“Oh,” Zarya says, at a loss. She is flattered despite herself, but that is probably because she had felt like nothing but a burden the entire day. “Well. Despite insulting my pride, you should know that your company was similarly appreciated.”

Shimada’s shoulders soften yet again. Zarya wonders if the man ever goes about his business without a little bit of tension to spare, just in case.  “I see. That is… good,” he says, then scowls with dissatisfaction at what he must see as an inability to carry a conversation.

“It _is_ good to make friends,” Zarya agrees.

Shimada blinks up at Zarya at that.  Despite all the difficulties he seems to be having with his facial expressions, Zarya notices that his surprise and vulnerability come across just fine.  After a moment, he averts his gaze and sips his tea -- despite the fact that it has not steeped nearly long enough to carry a flavor one could describe as anything other than “watery”.

“...  The way Overwatch functions is strange to me. I wonder,” he murmurs into the steam, “if it is not easier to keep one’s distance and spare oneself the grief of loss.”

That one hits a little too close to home for Zarya to be able to respond right away.  She takes a moment to compose herself before answering. “I believe that cultivating friendships with my fellows-in-arms only gives me greater motivation to perform my duties as a soldier.”

“Perhaps,” Shimada says doubtfully.

Zarya leans forward conspiratorially. “I have even heard Winston refer to the Old Watch as his ‘family’.”

Shimada groans. “Considering my track record with family, that is perhaps the _least_ ideal metaphor.”

 _“Ha!”_ Zarya laughs, covering her mouth so she doesn’t spit tea onto Shimada's face.  When Shimada gives her a look of reproach, she responds with an incredulous look of her own. “ _You_ are the one who said it, Shimada. Not me.”

This he does not dignify with a response, though his expression smooths out into one of sportsmanlike defeat.

At length, he says, “I know I requested you refer to me as Shimada yesterday, but -- if you wish to refer to me by my given name…  I would not object.”

Zarya grins. “Hanzo it is, then.”

Shimada -- Hanzo -- smothers his own smile behind his mug.

“By the way,” Zarya says, “were you the one who left the tea on my door?”

“I was,” Hanzo confirms. “It occurred to me after the fact that I ought to have made the source of the letter clearer, but…” He fidgets with his tea bag -- then he seems to forget this anxiety and move onto another. “I did not know if you liked tea, or if you would appreciate the gesture -- but, you seem like a very active person. Knowing your injury would limit your mobility…”

Zarya wonders, in the haze of her hatred on the mountain, how much Zenyatta divulged over the communications line -- and how much of her condition Hanzo had worked out for himself.

“... Perhaps it was presumptuous of me,” Hanzo says, despite sitting at the table, with Zarya, in amicable company,  _as she drinks the very tea he gave her._

“If it was, then I am grateful to you for presuming,” Zarya assures him. “Thank you.”

Hanzo looks relieved. “It is no trouble."

They remain in the comfortable morning gloom of the dimly lit kitchen until they finish their tea.

When they have both finished, Hanzo wordlessly offers to take Zarya’s mug.  A token protest hisses in the place she keeps her pride when she has no use for it.

She silences it with a thought.

Hanzo disposes of the tea bags and places the mugs in the sink. “Perhaps,” Hanzo says as he rinses out the mugs, “you would like to go to the practice range together some time.  After you have recovered,” he amends.

Zarya will have to find out where the practice range is, but she doesn’t doubt Torbjörn will be the first to show it to her when she is finally ready to test out her weapon. “What do you carry?” Zarya asks, interested.

“A bow and arrow.”

Zarya blinks.  She has borne witness to many of Hanzo’s miraculous abilities -- scaling sheer cliff faces with ease, jumping twenty feet into the air, having impeccable taste in tea -- so she is trying very hard not to show on her face how beneath him she thinks a bow and arrow is.

Overwatch surely recruited him because he is a capable combatant -- not because he is a gold medalist in gymnastics or tea ceremonies.  So he obviously is _adept_ with a bow and arrow -- but how much skill with such a primitive weapon must one have to be more advantageous than any of the modern alternatives?

“You are surprised,” Hanzo decides.

“I am not entirely sure what I expected.  But it was not a bow,” Zarya admits. Maybe a sniper rifle, she allows, or a rocket launcher...

But then, is a bow any more outrageous than Genji’s shuriken and katana?

Zarya wisely decides not to tell Hanzo that this comparison is what finally convinces her.

“Well, it is no matter.  You shall see it eventually, should you accept.” Hanzo places the mugs, washed and dried, back in their places in the cupboard, before turning around and leaning on the counter with his arms crossed. “And you?  What is your weapon of choice?”

“I am proficient with assault rifles and machine guns. But my primary weapon is a particle cannon.”

Even in the insufficient light, Zarya can see the whites of Hanzo’s eyes grow larger as his eyes widen. “A cannon,” he repeats.

Zarya smiles as smug as a cat, and doesn't bother correcting him. “Yes.”

“You must be…” Hanzo seems momentarily lost for words.  “Formidable,” he finally decides upon.

“I suppose you will have to see for yourself on the range.”

Hanzo laughs, a warm and private sound that only narrowly escapes his stern lips. “I suppose I will.”

* * *

When Zarya arrives back at her room, Satya is there.

“Zarya,” the woman says with a yawn, “how fortuitous. I was just about to send you a message.”

Zarya is glad she caught the woman before she did.  That abrasive default notification tone would ruin her good mood if she had to hear it just now.

"Winston wanted you to have this," Satya says as she gestures behind her, where an off-white platform levitates inches off the ground in a cloud of blue fairy lights.  Atop the platform sits a small refrigerator. "Would you be so kind as to open the door?"

Zarya places her palm on the reader --which reads: Добро пожаловать домой ))) \-- and holds the door open for Satya as the woman guides the hard light platform into the room.

Satya asks Zarya where she wants the refrigerator.  Despite Satya’s protests, Zarya stands on one foot and lifts the fridge into the corner. Satya chides Zarya for taking unnecessary risks; Zarya responds by calling Satya unnecessarily cautious.  Satya seems upset by the remark, but a grin from Zarya is thankfully enough to smooth away the woman's anger.

Zarya didn't expect Satya to take that so personally, but she also doesn’t know the woman very well yet.  Zarya would feel bad if she had managed to upset and estrange Satya so early in their acquaintanceship.  Zarya makes a mental note to be more careful with the other woman’s feelings.

Satya sits in the chair at Zarya’s desk while Zarya piles ice packs into the freezer portion of the mini-fridge.  “I was helping Winston analyze some data from the omnium, before I came.  Would you like to join us?”

Zarya would, but she doesn't know if Satya is offering out of a sense of obligation. “I wouldn't want to distract you from your work.”

“It would be no imposition,” Satya insists. “In truth, I believe rest would suit you better -- I only ask because you have demonstrated that you are dissatisfied with remaining in your room.” Satya examines her nails coolly, scrutinizing one finger closely as if she has found a chip in the paint. “And,” she adds, “because I do not, nor does Winston to my knowledge, find your presence objectionable.”

“High praise,” Zarya says with a grin.

Satya smiles tentatively.

Zarya closes the fridge and stands. “Then I accept.”

A soft chime resounds from somewhere, and Zarya glances at her tablet in confusion. No, that wasn't hers. Then --

“Oh,” Satya says, her eyes darting back and forth as her brow slowly furrows.

“Is there a problem?” Zarya asks.

“Not… as such,” she says, distracted by whatever she is reading.  “Winston finished researching while I was gone, it seems.” Satya presses a button on the side of her headset, and the lights stop flashing across her visor.

Satya meets Zarya’s eyes. “There is a brief about the dust bowl omnium in twenty minutes.”

Zarya’s tablet chirps in corroboration, and Zarya grits her teeth at the sound.

Satya grimaces at Zarya’s tablet as if it has personally offended her. “Would you like me to--?”

“ _Please._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your support and patience! This chapter gave me some real grief, on account of I accidentally made this an Ensemble fic and now I have to juggle everyone's subplots while still keeping a focus on Zarya and Zenyatta!
> 
> If I ever miss two Wednesdays in a row, I'm going to remove the line in the fic summary that says I update every week. I wouldn't want to give new readers the wrong idea! Further details and scheduling information can be found or solicited on my blog, [orbofdiscourse](http://orbofdiscourse.tumblr.com)!
> 
> And that's all she wrote! Thanks for reading!!
> 
> Translation Notes:  
> Добро пожаловать домой // Dobro pozhalovat' domoy // Welcome home  
> Russian keyboards don't have an easy-access colon (":"), so Russian smiley faces don't have eyes! ... From what I've read. )))


	12. Chime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for casual fish death and two metric tons of Russian salt.

Crisp autumnal winds tangle themselves in the richly green pines and the color-changing deciduous trees that loom high above the watch point. The humidity ladens everything with wetness, cold and invigorating fingers of Nature carding through the hair of its Creation. Rivulets of morning dew condensate into the divots and grooves of Zenyatta’s plating, where they trek ever downward in winding trails back toward the Earth.

Within the confines of a meditative trance, Zenyatta finds it amusing that the water that settles upon them inexorably follows the path set by gravity, while they themselves are free of its influence as they hover above the grass.

The meditation beads of Zenyatta’s own fashioning and design hover around them, bouncing in metronome, an anchor for their focus.

A breeze passes over and through Zenyatta, gathering up the droplets in its hand. Evaporation is a cooling processes, and a chill travels up and down their spinal column in a gentle prickle. Zenyatta endures the sensation without shivering, ever restrained. Opening one's senses to the minutiae of experience is resource inefficient, and it can be overwhelming, but Zenyatta finds it is the most effective way to ground themselves.

It is the first truly gainful meditation Zenyatta has managed in days.

Well. “Gainfulness” is hardly a fair rubric by which to judge such things. And why should such things be judged? Meditation is meant to alleviate such concerns, not compound them.

Zenyatta breathes deeply of the cool, damp air, and refocuses anew. It is September now, Zenyatta reflects. Soon the lime and yellow-orange foliage will burn the red of sunset, complementary to the evergreens that remain as they are without regard to the seasons.

Three winters have passed since Mondatta’s death.

Grief overcomes Zenyatta suddenly -- as if they were sitting on a serene lakefront, only to be overtaken by an incalculable tidal wave.

“Be like water making its way through the net,” Mondatta says in their achingly familiar voice. Zenyatta is aware enough to realize that Mondatta is not truly there with them, but that the voice comes unbidden from the confines of a well-secured memory. It is an old one, nearly as old as Zenyatta -- yet it is also pristine, the quality of the memory a crystalline prism that splits into fractals of light.

“In what way?” Zenyatta challenges, heaving the net out of the water with the other omnic’s assistance. Fish tumble across the deck as the worn-out old thing snaps in their fingers. “Oh, for goodness’ sake--”

“Do not struggle against the lattice and tangle yourself in it,” Mondatta answers, “but adjust to it, and you shall find a way around it or through it.”

“It broke,” Zenyatta says. Yet as they gather up the bouncing, gasping creatures and drop them into the freezer box, they cannot conceal the smile in their voice. “How does that fit in with your metaphor, hmm?”

“Ah,” Mondatta says as they join Zenyatta on their hands and knees. “I suppose it doesn’t.”

“Probably for the best.” The stench of fish is overpowering, and Zenyatta considers offlining their olfactory sensors -- but whimsically decides against it, despite the unpleasantness of the smell. “I do not think I could have listened with a straight face if you continued quoting Bruce Lee.”

“Bruce Lee was a gentleman and a scholar,” Mondatta protests.

“You have me there,” Zenyatta concedes.

Their freezer boxes are full, so they conclude their pre-sunrise excursion. Between the two of them, they steer their fishing sloop back into the wharf and begin preparing their haul to be sold when the market opens. Zenyatta throws a fish to Mondatta when the other omnic is unprepared, and it slaps Mondatta comically in the face. The subsequent apology Zenyatta gives is watered down by their uncontrollable laughter as Mondatta makes a disgusted sound and tosses the fish onto the display.

 _Curious_ , Zenyatta thinks as they regain control of their laughter. They wonder if Mondatta has, despite the smell, left their own olfactory sensors alone as well.

“How does the rest of it go?” Zenyatta asks idly as they hang fish from the stall.

“Of what?” Mondatta asks coyly, occupied with the same, ducking their head knowingly when Zenyatta turns to look at them incredulously. Zenyatta scoffs and flicks water from their fingers at the back of Mondatta’s neck, and Mondatta shouts in alarm and slaps a hand on the afflicted area. Mondatta whirls. “You are lucky that we are waterproof! Otherwise I would be dead and you would have to mourn for me. and then how would you feel?”

Zenyatta is almost too giddy to respond. Despite the frigidity of the morning, the unpleasant spray of the salt and sea, and the objectionable stench of fish, it seems that Mondatta has not dulled their senses, either. They two are joined in mutual experience of the overcast day and the less than pleasant sensory experience that is the wharf of Kuakata. Zenyatta reaches out a finger and taps the seam between Mondatta’s face and mouth -- despite the fact that the omnic had spoken without moving it. “Be water, my friend.”

Mondatta laughs, surprised, their mouth falling open with the movement and clacking on Zenyatta’s digit. Zenyatta lowers their hand, and Mondatta covers their mouth to smother their laughter.

“How audacious to plagiarize the quote I was plagiarizing. Have you no shame?” Mondatta asks, mirth an undertone in every word.

“I cannot rebuke the wisdom of Bruce Lee,” Zenyatta admits. Mondatta laughs again, and Zenyatta experiences a frisson at the sound. “And to answer your question--”

“Which?”

“--if I were to mourn you,” Zenyatta continues in answer, “I believe I would be utterly inconsolable.”

“Well,” Mondatta says, bashful, “well, we are a pair. Inseparable.”

 _Named together,_ Zenyatta thinks -- but they do not speak of that time, so Zenyatta does not voice it. “So we are,” they say instead.

“I think,” Mondatta goes on, “if one of us were to die, the other would simply drop dead in sympathy.”

 _How morbid,_ Zenyatta thinks with flattered delight. “I think I’d like nothing more.”

"How morbid!" Mondatta laughs.

The pair of them finish arraying their haul of fish on the fronts and sides of the wooden stall just as the gates open to foot traffic. The bustle of tourists and local shoppers descend upon the marketplace in the shimmering light of the sunrise on the water, the putrid yet familiar haze of the wharf hanging overhead.

* * *

It's too much.

 _Be water,_ Zenyatta thinks, but the thought only sets the memory rolling again like an inexorable and infinite film reel designed to unmake the omnic.

Zenyatta, obligingly, is unmade.

They sink to the Earth, prayer beads rolling off their shoulders and tumbling into the grass like tennis balls.

Zenyatta buries their face in their hands.

_Zenyatta Mondatta, Zenyatta Mondatta, two of a kind, named together, that makes us kin -- we're brothers, we're sisters --_

At first, Zenyatta restrains the cry of anguish clawing at the inside of their chest. It is not so bad, Zenyatta assures themselves. Mondatta's spirit lives on in the Iris, where Zenyatta will surely meet them again one day.

And yet the thought does not comfort them. What does it matter that Mondatta's soul has been reconstituted into the Iris? Despite the potential depravity of seeking to commune with one moved on from the world of the living, Zenyatta has attempted to find Mondatta's unmistakable essence in its whorls of brilliant light. Zenyatta has reached, and reached, until they were spiritually and mentally exhausted and on the verge of losing themselves to its infinite depth and breadth.

Nothing Zenyatta could recognize as their late friend reached back in answer.

Zenyatta knows that Mondatta has moved on, and they are glad that their dear friend did not suffer long in death. But the ache of their absence is an undercurrent in everything, and the nature of the Iris -- that it reconstitutes all souls into a single entity, each indistinguishable for the last, at least to Zenyatta's senses -- means that it brings no comfort, no closure to Zenyatta's suffering.

Zenyatta can hold their sorrow within no longer, and they release it in a cry, a sob, a gasp. Zenyatta has finally arrived to the point where they sometimes do not even notice the pain, but there are other times -- such as this very moment -- wherein they are overcome with the agony of it.

For the most part, the pain is a constant presence in Zenyatta's life, as Mondatta once was.

A bamboo wind chime resounds suddenly, wrenching Zenyatta back into the present moment with a ragged gasp.

Zenyatta breathes deeply. It is insufficient to calm them or regulate their voice, but they answer the call anyway, pressing their fingertips to the place under their jaw where their communication device is nestled securely. "Zenyatta."

Athena speaks: "Winston has called a meeting regarding the omnium in the American dust bowl," she reports.

Zenyatta's mind stalls momentarily.

"Please convene in Winston's laboratory in twenty minutes."

"... Acknowledged," Zenyatta says finally.

There is a pregnant pause on the line. "This is a private channel, so please speak freely. Is everything all right, Zenyatta?"

Zenyatta laughs weakly. "I apologize, Athena. I am afraid you simply caught me in the middle of a... distressing thought."

"Would you like to talk about it?"

Zenyatta considers the offer. Often, the omnic is sought out by others who wish to seek their counsel, but it is rare that Zenyatta seeks out others to help them with their own problems -- with the exception of Genji.

And Mondatta, once.

"Perhaps... another time," Zenyatta allows. "But I thank you for your kindness."

"Of course." Then, before a whisper of static tells Zenyatta the line is closed, "I am here if you need me."

Zenyatta looks at their prayer beads scattered in the grass and feels like a giant in the midst of an ancient ruin.

It takes two minutes for Zenyatta to gather their faculties enough to recall the prayer beads. The orbs twitch disagreeably, as if offended to have been dropped so unceremoniously. The thought is amusing enough to lift Zenyatta's spirits, and with little effort they come flying back to orbit around Zenyatta's neck. They settle on their shoulders, glowing with light and warmth as Zenyatta imbues the beads with the light of their soul.

Zenyatta inhales; exhales.

Once they are afloat, they place their feet on the ground, wet grass slipping against the plating of their soles. They feel confident in their ability to float the rest of the way back, but perhaps walking upon the Earth will make them feel a little more grounded.

Zenyatta makes their way back to the watch point on foot, humming a song they once heard on a fisherman's wharf long ago.

* * *

Zenyatta is floating again by the time they reach Winston’s laboratory. When they enter they are greeted warmly by Mei and Tracer, and they respond in kind. Winston has set up a table with a portable hologram projector in its center, and Zarya is sitting on a desk across the room, her crutches balanced between her legs. She fidgets as Satya shows her something on her tablet, and she looks up and meets Zenyatta’s gaze as they enter the room.

Before Zenyatta can wave a hand in greeting, the woman turns away from them with effort and clenches her jaw, brow furrowing as she refocuses her attention aggressively on what Satya is showing her.

Ah. Perhaps another time, then.

“Is this everyone?” Mei asks.

“Just Reinhardt.” As Winston says it, the man enters looking winded. He has obviously just come from the gym, from his clothes and his countenance. Zenyatta glances over at Zarya. She is dressed similarly, but it does not appear that she has spent the morning with Reinhardt.

Perhaps that is simply what she sleeps in, Zenyatta thinks idly. They are quick to cast the thought away, an unwanted fish into a harbor. Such things are no business of Zenyatta’s.

It is enough for them to be assured that Zarya is not exacerbating the injury Zenyatta unintentionally caused.

“Apologies for my tardiness!” Reinhardt booms.

Zenyatta notices Zarya smile fondly in the corner of their vision.

“Very good. I thank you all for coming on such short notice. First, let me contextualize what I am about to tell you…”

Winston recounts the bankruptcy and negative press that befell the Omnica corporation which lead to its abandonment of the omniums, and the subsequent reluctance of scientists, architects, and engineers to admit to an association with the corporation.

Once the Crisis began, that sealed it: no one would take any credit for the products of the Omnica corporation once the subject of reparations was on the table.  Who would want to leave comfortable anonymity only to enter a life of controversy and infamy?  Such an admission would effectively end anyone’s professional career.

Because of this, no one knew quite how the omniums worked -- and when the Crisis was over, even the omnics who brokered peace were at a loss for how to disable them.

“... So it was agreed that the omnics would make a good faith effort to deactivate the omniums, rather than having the treaty be contingent upon their deactivation. Obviously it wouldn’t be reasonable to ask for the moon, heh, uh, as it were.” Winston adjusts his glasses to conceal his private smile at the joke.

It is a good joke, Zenyatta thinks.

“Anyway,” Winston continues, “by all appearances, whatever the omnics did seemed to have worked, and the omniums shut down. But not entirely.”

“What?” Zenyatta looks at Zarya across the room, who looked bored up until the moment Winston uttered that crucial piece of information.

“What does this mean?” Zarya asks again. “‘Not entirely’?”

Winston taps a remote, and the holographic projector in the center of the table comes to life with what looks like a data log in computer jargon.

Zenyatta can read it well enough, but they’re also fairly certain they don’t have to do so aloud for the benefit of the group -- otherwise Winston would not have called them all there.

“This,” Winston says, “is a record of every attempt to access the omnium’s servers. As you can see--” and at this, a segment of each string of data that seems to indicate the date is highlighted, “server access requests stopped being logged about a year after the Crisis ended.”

"Time still passes strangely for me," Mei says -- and she laughs under her breath when Tracer elbows her and mutters, "you and me both, sister," -- "but is that not within the allowable span of time the omnics were given to deactivate them?"

“You're not mistaken. It's a perfectly reasonable period of time," Winston says. “But we have reason to believe that this communication flatline is not a result of the omnic's actions, but the omnium itself.”

Zarya leans over to Satya discreetly and whispers something. Zenyatta sees her lips shape around the word ‘flatline’ -- then forcibly turns their attention back to Winston. They may have the mental faculties to listen to Winston _and_ read Zarya’s lips from across the room, but that doesn’t mean they _should_. It is an invasion of privacy, at the very least.

Reinhardt tugs at his beard, troubled. “Why would the omnium shut down its _own_ means of communication?”

“Athena and Satya and I came up with a few theories. But the most likely one is based on the date of the last few server access requests.”

The aforementioned date is highlighted so that it outshines the others. It is before Zenyatta’s time, but they know it -- and judging by the way Reinhardt and Tracer both inhale sharply, they know it, too.

Winston summarizes: “Multiple requests from the same location -- and then the omnium goes dark.”

Tracer crosses her arms over one another, bracing her hands on her elbows as if she is seeking comfort. “Don’t suppose that location’s Australia...?”

Winston nods gravely. “That’s correct."

“Please explain,” Zarya says, agitated.

“That is the date,” Satya says, and in response to her voice Zarya relaxes marginally, “that the Australian Liberation Front succeeded in overtaking the omnium in Queensland, Australia. They sabotaged the facility’s fusion core, which resulted in the destruction of the omnium and the irradiation of the surrounding area. The region is still seeing the effects of massive nuclear fallout.”

Zenyatta thought as much.  So the Australian omnium had sent a message to the dust bowl omnium in the last moments it was under siege. For what? Surely not reinforcements. The omnium in the dust bowl was much too far to be of any immediate use at such short notice.

“The information on the servers was heavily encrypted,” Winston says in the silence, “so we can’t quite say what information it was trying to access, or why -- but evidently the omnium in the dust bowl considered these server requests a threat, or a warning of some kind, so it shut itself down. Or, I should say -- blocked off communications and put itself in standby.”

“A defense mechanism, then,” Reinhardt concludes.

Winston nods. “Yes, that’s what we thought. Against what, though, we can’t really say.”

Zarya snorts. “Did it not occur to you to ask the _omnic?”_

There is an uncomfortable beat of silence. The other agents are tactful enough not to look directly at Zenyatta in the wake of such a transparent accusation -- but Zenyatta nevertheless feels the attention of everyone in the room turn to them.

“... Yes, it had occurred to me,” Winston finally says, “and since I brought you all here, I figured that if anyone had any thoughts on the matter, they would share them with the team.” Winston, bless his heart, obviously _wants_ to ask -- but he is also aware that Zarya’s tone is implying subterfuge or ill intent. He probably does not want to give credence to such insinuations by following up Zarya’s demand for information with a request of his own.

“What sort of information could the omniums be sharing...?” Zenyatta ponders aloud. They try not to be ashamed that their thoughts are far too scattered to truly focus on such a thing. Observation and information intake, Zenyatta can do. Analysis escapes them at the moment.  In the end, they simply shrug and say, “I haven’t the foggiest idea.”

Winston nods, satisfied, as if he had thought as much.

Zarya narrows her eyes at Zenyatta from across the room.

Oh dear, Zenyatta thinks.

Winston encourages anyone to come to him if they have any further thoughts on the matter and begins wrapping up the brief.

“We believe that if we cross-reference the log data from other omniums, we may be able to compile a more complete picture of what happened. This will help us understand why the omniums ceased to function, and what kinds of stimuli might prompt them to reactivate. This is crucial to understanding how and why the omnium in Siberia reactivated four years ago, and how we might interrupt its current operations at the highest level.”

Winston meets everyone’s eyes at least once, but at this last he meets Zarya’s. Zarya straightens, eyes hardening with purpose, and she nods.

“We’re planning a mission to the omnium in Death Valley next. Soon, actually. Let me know after this if any of you are interested. If there are no other questions? Concerns?” Evidently, there are not. “Then you’re dismissed.”

The room erupts into chatter. Zenyatta is the first to leave.

They will have to think on the implications of what Winston has told them all later. For now, Zenyatta feels like it is all they can muster to get back to their room and sleep on this development.

“Omnic.”

Zenyatta’s shoulders twitch and, to their alarm, they find themselves lowering their feet to the floor just in time for gravity to seize them from their lofty seat above the Earth.

Oh.

Oh, _dear._

Zenyatta postpones the problematic realization they are on the verge of until such a time as Zarya is not standing behind them, waiting for a response.

They turn on their heel, swinging their other leg out in a whimsical little arc as they clasp their hands behind their back.

Judging by her expression, Zarya seems perturbed that Zenyatta has chosen to join her standing on the Earth.

 _That makes two of us,_ Zenyatta thinks.

Distantly, Zenyatta notices that Zarya is taller than they are -- though they can’t say for certain by how much when she’s leaning on her crutches and favoring one side.

“Is there something on your mind, Zarya?”

“How can you _not_ know how the omnium works?” Zarya wastes no time before demanding. “You were _made_ in one.”

Zenyatta hums, as if considering. But they have answered such questions enough times that it takes hardly any consideration to answer. “Does one know everything about themselves the moment they are born? Even the inner workings of a person must be taught to them -- it is not inherently known. Human physiology took thousands of years to cultivate. Omnics are simply fortunate we were created by someone kind enough to leave blueprints behind.”

Zarya shifts her weight, knuckles whitening on the handles of her crutches. “And you expect me to believe there are no omnium blueprints among those?” she challenges.

“I try not to expect anything,” Zenyatta says conversationally. “It is more satisfying to take things as they come and enjoy life in its proper sequence -- as a surprise!”

“Enough,” Zarya hisses, glancing at the door to the lab behind them. Remarkably, no one seems to have realized that the omnic and the former Russian Defense Force member left at the same time, or else someone would surely be coming out to make sure that this conversation was not happening. Zarya picks up one of her crutches and jabs the handle toward Zenyatta. “You should be thankful that I am injured, or we would not be having this conversation.”

“I could never be thankless for an opportunity to converse with you,” Zenyatta insists. "And in truth, I am quite sorry that you are injured. Surely you attribute it to my actions, and I do not blame you. You would be justified in resenting me for it.”

If Zarya were going to seek treatment for her ankle from Dr. Ziegler, it would be healed by now.

Which meant that for some reason she hadn’t.

“As a matter of fact,” Zenyatta goes on, “I am available to heal it for you, if you so desire.”

“What I _desire_ ,” Zarya says lowly, her accent thickening with emotion, “is to squeeze your _tin can_ _head_ between my palms, until --”

It is at this inopportune moment that the door to Winston’s laboratory opens. Tracer and Mei are engaged in quiet conversation as they exit.

Zarya’s expression is frozen in the horrified and humiliated tableau of one who has been caught doing something she knows she shouldn’t have, and who is terrified of her inevitable retribution. There is no doubt that Tracer, an omnic rights proponent, and Mei, a lover and protector of all living things, would be Zenyatta’s fiercest defenders if they heard what Zarya had just said.

“Of course,” Zenyatta says, “I understand. My method of healing does not suit everyone, and I fully support your desire to seek alternative treatment.” Zenyatta bows slightly, placing their right fist in their left palm as they do so. “I simply thought I would remind you that I am at your disposal as a healer, and as a member of your team.”

Zarya stares at Zenyatta in disbelief.

Tracer and Mei are silent behind her.

Eventually Zarya seems to decide that the avenue of escape Zenyatta has given her is far too appealing to waste it being surprised. “Yes, well,” she manages at length, “I... appreciate the offer.”

“I am here to help,” Zenyatta says as they straighten their spine. With Herculean effort, they resume floating in a lotus position. "Now, I bid you a pleasant day."

“You as well,” Zarya says awkwardly, and perhaps because she thinks her act is not convincing enough, she adds, “Zenyatta.”

The shape of it is strange in her mouth, as if she is saying it for the first time. Zenyatta would not put it past her, but the thought somehow does nothing to diminish how much easier it is to remain afloat as they make their way back to their room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zenyatta, she just accused you of subterfuge and threatened you! That didn't not happen just bc she found a compelling reason to acknowledge that u have a name... Please love yourself my child...
> 
> A friend of mine confessed that the first Zenyatta chapter was their favorite because it was so abstract and sensory and exploratory, and I realized I've been using all the Zen chapters to just talk about what Genji and Zenyatta are doing? Which is fine! But I could ALSO be using it to deliver a fun and exciting sensory experience for you guys, and explore even more of Zenyatta's back story.
> 
> I hope all this stuff is staying consistent within itself -- I'm finding it gets more difficult to maintain continuity as the fic gets longer. But that just makes sense to me, I think! I'll have to start rereading this thing more often before updates, but I hope to keep up with the same schedule as usual.
> 
> In other news I drew a shitpost of my own for these two and it's [here](http://orbofdiscourse.tumblr.com/post/149770761780/zarya-i-know-old-habits-die-hard-but-please-dont), if you guys are interested in that!
> 
> Thank you all for your readership and support! <3


	13. Mother Tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zarya questions Zenyatta's motives. Reinhardt imparts wisdom. Zarya overhears a conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of me wants to apologize in advance for this chapter but another part of me is reminding myself that y'all _came here_ to watch Zarya be uncomfortable.
> 
> So... buckle up!

The omnic bobs along like a dandelion seed on a breeze, carried by whatever magnetic fields or antigravity technology permit it to achieve such a pointlessly theatrical feat.

Honestly, one would think an omnic of all things would be above such frivolous displays.

 _Apparently not,_ Zarya thinks. It seems there is a new reason to dislike the omnic every day Zarya spends in its presence.

(She does not consider this hypocritical when put in contrast with her own sense of showmanship. Her strength is something she has acquired through dedication and training. It is only right for her to take pride in it.)

Denied the confirmation of her suspicions and stopped short of voicing her violent intent, Zarya feels the familiar murderous momentum of the battlefield roiling in her blood with nowhere to go. Her stomach roars with liquid fire, and she is incapable of releasing it. Certainly not with Mei and Tracer standing as spectators behind her.

She can't even clench her fists, let her knuckles whiten around the handles of her crutches.  If she were to show her feelings for even a moment, then the agents standing behind her would surely determine the nature of her exchange with the omnic.

Which begged the question: why had it pretended the interaction had been anything but what it was, when Tracer and Mei would have surely come to its defense if they had known?  Did it simply resent conflict? If that were the case, then why respond to her accusations at all, and then offer to heal her? Was it a power play? Did it mean to rub her injury in her face, knowing she would refuse its assistance on principle?

“ _So_...” Tracer says, and Zarya’s thoughts scatter. Zarya has to muster all her strength not to sigh. Bless the woman, and Zarya has nothing but respect for her -- but her smile is entirely too insufferable as she leans into Zarya’s field of vision. “Since when are you and Zenyatta getting along?”

The liquid fire swiftly solidifies into a cold and heavy stone that weighs down Zarya’s stomach. The last thing she wants to do is lie to Tracer’s face, but she imagines her shame would be far worse if Tracer knew what had really happened a moment ago.

“Getting along is an overstatement,” Zarya says, and she congratulates herself on her honesty.  She forces her shoulders to relax as she turns toward the woman.  She searches for the most tactful way to describe her relationship with the omnic, at Tracer’s expectant look. “We… agree to disagree.”

Mei laughs, attempting to dispel the tension as she approaches to stand beside Tracer. “I didn’t think Zenyatta had it in him to disagree with anyone.”

Zarya purses her lips and waits a moment too long to answer, and she thinks Mei’s expression shifts a little too close to understanding for her liking-- when Reinhardt chooses that moment to emerge from Winston’s laboratory as well.

“I did not have an opportunity to say so earlier -- but a good morning to all of you, my friends!”

Thankfully, the subject changes to light talk about everyone’s plans for the day.  Zarya carefully looks at anything but Mei’s expression as they chatter, anxious of what she might see in it.

Zarya tunes back into the conversation in time to hear Mei issue an open invitation to the day room for table tennis.  Unthinkingly, she meets the woman’s eyes -- and is surprised to find no trace of reproach in them.

“I’m in,” Tracer agrees readily.

“I should preserve my strength, if we have a mission on the horizon,” Reinhardt says, stroking his beard, “so I see no issue in cutting my workout short. Count me in!”

“What about you, Zarya?” Mei asks, face open and guileless. Perhaps she had not seen the burning core of Zarya’s resentment after all. “You don’t have to play if it will worsen your injury.  Feel free to come if you want to watch, or just... chill out?” The woman offers a small smile at the pun.

Zarya acknowledges the kindness of the offer but does not commit to an answer.  Maybe later, she hedges.  Mei simply nods in understanding, and the three of them bid Zarya a pleasant day as they split off in different directions -- Reinhardt to change out of his gym clothes, and Tracer and Mei to warm up with a couple of rounds at the tennis table before the space becomes contested.

When Mei and Tracer are out of sight, Reinhardt speaks up. “Zarya.”

Zarya jolts. She had been watching the other two agents -- she hadn’t realized that Reinhardt had stayed.  She really ought to pay closer attention to her surroundings... “Yes, Reinhardt? Something you’d like to discuss?” Zarya turns fully toward the man and looks at him.

Her military experience makes her brace for teasing about her injury, or at the very least a pointed question of when he will see her back in the gym. But he doesn’t even acknowledge her crutches with his eyes.  That eases Zarya’s fears, somewhat -- although there is still the intensity of his expression to contend with. Reinhardt looks uncharacteristically serious, and staring straight into his face, the thought strikes Zarya that she is looking into a mirror.  Her scar is on the opposite side of her face as Reinhardt’s, which compounds the mirror-image effect.

Although just from looking at it, Zarya can see that where her injury spared her sight, Reinhardt’s was not so kind.

“The things you said in the lab...” Reinhardt begins, and Zarya’s blood runs cold. “Zarya. Do you suspect Zenyatta of something?” Reinhardt even looks concerned, as if he is prepared for her to reveal some observation she has made that reveals the omnic’s true nature.

Zarya regrets that she will have to disappoint the man.  It is not an observation anyone else on the team has failed to make; it is just that for some reason, they have all failed to come to the obvious conclusion that Zarya has.

“Nothing specific,” she says, “but I would be a fool to trust an omnic.”

Reinhardt’s face slackens with surprise, and he laughs. “Do you think the rest of us fools, then?”

“That is not--” she begins, but finds there is nothing she can say to defend such a thoughtless implication. Zarya tears her gaze away, glaring at the ground.  Any explanations for failure were derided as merely excuses in the Russian Defense Force.  She expects this to be the same.  She presses her lips tightly shut and waits for Reinhardt’s castigation.

Yet when she chances a look, Reinhardt still seems to be waiting for a response.  His expression is devoid of judgment -- though he _is_ sporting a maddeningly playful smirk, and he seems to be raising his eyebrows in amusement at having rendered Zarya speechless.

But he is not stopping Zarya from speaking.

Zarya takes a deep breath and gathers her thoughts. “I don’t think you are a fool,“ she says, subdued.  “But I don’t understand how you can trust an omnic so easily.”

Reinhardt strokes his beard thoughtfully. “It is not easy at first,” Reinhardt admits. “I fought in the Omnic Crisis, so I can understand your feelings.”

Zarya finds it conspicuous that he does not specify the _First_ Omnic Crisis. It is the parlance of politicians, of those who do not consider the Second Omnic Crisis to be a genuine recurrence of the war that Overwatch originally participated in.

“It is difficult to see the enemy doing mundane things, walking about in the streets and going about their day. Wondering when their next strike will come. But once I came to know some omnics personally, it became easier to separate them from the dragons I faced on the battlefield.”

Zarya finds this answer unsatisfactory and patronizing.  But she is too ashamed to argue, so she simply nods.

Reinhardt lays a hand on Zarya’s shoulder. The gentleness of the gesture is something Zarya thought him incapable of; it is the only acknowledgment he makes of her injury. “It will be good for you to befriend Zenyatta, to discover this for yourself.”

Reinhardt leaves her standing alone in the hall.

Zarya resists the powerful urge to throw her crutches against the wall and shout.

But only just.

* * *

Winston gives her an ultimatum: if Dr. Ziegler, Lucio, or Zenyatta grants her a bill of good health, Zarya will be permitted to accompany them on the mission. Satya meets Zarya’s gaze a few times during the exchange, but the eye contact is so brief that Zarya cannot make out a meaning to the woman’s expression. When their business is concluded, Zarya sees herself out.

If she is being a bit brusque, she has no issue attributing it to the pain in her ankle -- which no longer aches terribly but is still irritating, and far too tender to walk on.

After considering her options, Zarya decides in the evening that she will pay Dr. Ziegler a visit -- if nothing else but to have the progress on her ankle inspected.

When she arrives, Zarya hears voices through the door, and thinking the doctor must be seeing someone wonders if she ought to wait. But then the muffled sound resolves into two distinct voices: one familiar, and one unfamiliar.

Neither of which belongs to Dr. Ziegler.

Zarya opens the door, but she sees no one. The voices drift in from a room adjacent to the main clinic. Neither speaker exhibits any sign of having noticed her arrival.

“... being negligent in your duties.”

 _Satya,_ Zarya thinks, brow furrowing. It doesn't sound like the other woman is here for a medical exam.

“I was _doing_ my duties before you came in here and started giving me a hard time for no reason,” the unfamiliar voice says. “What's this about?”

“Agent Zaryanova is injured, and you are the only medic capable of treating her.”

Zarya’s face heats with shame. While she appreciates Satya’s sympathy, she hardly wants the woman discussing her condition with her healthcare providers. It feels patronizing.

“First of all, you're not a medic -- so unless you're Zarya's emergency contact and she's indisposed, that's not any of your business.”

 _Thank you_ , Zarya thinks, indignant.

“Second of all,” the voice, which by now Zarya has identified as belonging to Lucio, cuts itself off in an incredulous laugh, “I _told_ you the parts I needed like, a week ago.”

“So now it is my fault that you are unequipped to do _your_ job?”

“Kind of, yeah!” There is a beat of silence, and a gusty, long-suffering sigh. “I'm not saying I can't make do without your help -- but if you're going to come into my workplace and demanding information about something that isn't your business, maybe consider the hypocrisy in being uncooperative when I make requests of _you._ I'd be fully operational if you had pulled those Vishkar strings of yours like I asked.”

The silence this time is longer and even more uncomfortable than the last.

Zarya barely hears Satya when she says, “I have to go,” and before Zarya can move out of the way, Satya exits the room adjacent to the main clinic and nearly barrels right into her.

“Zarya!” she says in alarm. Zarya considers chastising the woman for trying to discuss her condition with Lucio without consulting her, but Satya looks so miserable and ashamed that when she whispers, “Please excuse me,” Zarya steps aside and lets the woman go.

Hesitantly, Zarya steps forward and knocks on the open door.

The room is similar in design to the main clinic, but its purpose seems more geared toward physical therapy, with the mats on the floor and physical therapy bands of different colors hanging on the wall. Other physical therapy equipment is organized neatly against the wall, and Zarya can’t help but noticing the large loudspeakers at the corners of the room.  There are some colorful and encouraging posters hanging up that go even further in their departure from the white sterility of Dr. Ziegler’s work area.

Lucio is sitting in a localized mess of parts and electronics, many different tools lying within arm’s reach. He is halfway through the motion of scrubbing his hands down his face when Zarya announces her presence. He lowers his hands and looks up at her.

“I didn’t ask her to come,” Zarya feels the need to say. Part of her feels as if she is doing a disservice to Satya by saying this in front of someone who may dislike her -- but Satya truly had come here of her own volition, and Zarya doesn’t want Lucio to think she’s impatient for him to heal her.

Well. Impatient enough to come bother him while he’s working, at any rate.

Lucio lets out a soft, humorless laugh. His expression looks almost resigned. “I wasn’t sure what to think when she dropped your name.  But it’s good to know she’s just being, uh... her.”

Zarya steps into the room. “Do you... require assistance?”

“Nah. Thanks for offering, though. Hey,” Lucio says as he stands gracefully, “we’ve never spoken in person, right?  I guess there’s no need for introductions--” and at this Lucio extends a hand--“but it’s good to meet you face-to-face.”

Zarya steps forward and takes Lucio’s hand above the scattered parts. “Likewise.”

She is interested in what Lucio is doing with all of those circuit boards and electronic paraphernalia -- but after she walked in on that argument, she’s reluctant to give Lucio any indication that she is trying to hurry him along with his work.  From what she heard, it sounds like his rig won’t be operable until Satya brings Lucio some kind of equipment, anyway.

“You’re trying to go on that upcoming mission, right?” Lucio asks when they drop their hands to their sides.

Zarya blinks in surprise as she resettles her hands on her crutches.  She was only just informed of the mission this morning -- she can only imagine Lucio knows because Satya mentioned it when she was here a moment ago, or because he is going as well. “Yes, that’s right.”

Lucio rubs the small patch of hair on his chin thoughtfully. “I mean... I can probably heal you between now and then. But if they need a medic for the team, I won’t be able to come -- my whole situation kind of needs an upgrade.” Lucio gestures demonstratively to the armored plates and technological detritus surrounding him. “Which means that for anything that happens on the mission, you’ll have to be treated by Dr. Ziegler or Zenyatta if it’s serious.”

Zarya deflates. Considering how uneventful the previous mission had been, she hadn’t concerned herself with the risk of finding herself downrange without a medic she trusted.

But Winston _had_ implied the distance and the presence of unknown factors could make this next mission more dangerous.

If she has doubts about Dr. Ziegler’s nanites (and of her doubts about the omnic there is no question), it would be foolish of Zarya to enter a situation where she might be mortally wounded, and be forced to rely upon those nanites to survive.

Zarya runs a hand through her hair with a sigh.  And she isn’t looking for it, per se, but when a vibrant pink strand comes with her retreating hand she can’t help but notice that a few centimeters of it are blond. She tsks. Her roots are showing.

“I mean, I wasn’t going to _say_ anything about it,” Lucio says, and with a flush Zarya realizes she has spoken aloud. The man fiddles with the end of his locs, which are themselves a faded blond. “I still have some bleach and some blond dye left.  It’s not enough to re-do mine, but you can use it if you want."

Zarya runs a hand through her hair again. She’s fond of its current color, but it feels sloppy to let her roots grow out.  Not that anyone gave her a hard time about breaking dress and appearance regulations, toward the end of her contract with the Russian Defense Force. But she takes pride in the way she looks, and she can’t just leave it be now that she's noticed.

“... Or you can ask Genji to borrow his green," Lucio says.

The image of herself with the lime green that Genji is known for appears in her mind. It isn’t a bad look, and the image manages to make her laugh.  But why would Genji still have hair dye lying around after all these years? “Are you saying he still has it?” she asks.

“He doesn’t take his helmet off very often,” Lucio admits, “but his hair is green down to the roots every time I see it.”

Zarya’s head nearly spins right off her shoulders. _Hair? He has it?_ she thinks in bafflement. To look at Genji -- to _listen_ to him -- any reasonable person would take Genji to be some kind of fancy omnic. It is only by virtue of her pre-existing knowledge that Zarya knows he _used_ to be human. She thought that his mind was all that remained, though -- and even that, she had speculated to be an AI modeled after the man himself, not the genuine article.

It had not even occurred to her that something human may yet remain.

“Not sure green is your color?” Lucio asks at her contemplative look.

Zarya laughs weakly. “It would take some getting used to.”

Lucio smiles. “If you want that bleach, send me a message and I’ll drop it off for you.”

“Thank you,” Zarya says distractedly. “I will.”

Lucio settles back down onto the mat and begins doing something Zarya can’t quite fathom with a small precision screwdriver. As Zarya is leaving, Lucio says, “Could you close the door on your way out?” and then, “Thanks.”

Zarya stands in the vast, empty space of the main clinic.  The smell of antibacterial cleaning fluid fills her senses as her thoughts descend into static.

Zarya feels badly for assuming Genji was an omnic -- when in fact, if Lucio is to be believed (and he has given her no reason not to doubt him), Genji apparently suffered an injury grievous enough that his entire body serves as a prosthetic. Possibly at the _hands_ of an omnic.

The thought makes her feel even guiltier.

But today has no business getting any more complicated, Zarya decides. She focuses on the rushing sound between her ears, a snow storm buffeting the walls of a fortress.

Zarya makes her way through the halls, and despite her crutches, imagines she is marching in the solidarity and certainty of formation. A Russian cadence and the phantom sound of her comrade’s footsteps fills her ears. She murmurs the tune, and imagines her breath fogging in the air.

If she passes anyone on the way to her room, she takes no notice of them.


End file.
